


Ingénue

by ebonlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea backstory, BAMF!Anthea, Big Brother is Watching, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, F/F, Gen, Omniscient!Mycroft, Season 1 Spoilers, Season 2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:53:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 95,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebonlock/pseuds/ebonlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Her safe word is 'enough', because as soon as she meets Irene she knows she's never going to need it again.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miranda."

**Author's Note:**

> This was definitely a WIP that took on a life of its own. Inspired by the last few minutes of "A Scandal in Belgravia" that left me scratching my head and mumbling, "What, seriously?" I came up with my own solution that made a bit more sense to me and that led me to my other obsession: figuring out just where Anthea came from and how on earth she ended up working for The British Government himself. 
> 
> This is my first foray into Sherlock fandom and would dearly love some feedback, both where I'm going right and wrong.
> 
> Accompanying fanmix, "How Mycroft Got His Groove Back" can be found [**here**](http://8tracks.com/ebonlock/how-mycroft-got-his-groove-back).
> 
>  **Update:** Many, many thanks to GoldenUsagi for willingly slogging through this monster and editing it properly. Boy did it need it :) Also I should point out that the story is canon compliant through the end of Season Two but Season Three Josses it up one side and down the other. Now I guess it could be considered an AU.

Her safe word is 'enough', because as soon as she meets Irene she knows she's never going to need it again. 

She's twenty, out on her own for the first time, and madly in love with a wicked, wicked woman. Her life is a disastrous combination of post-teen rebellion, sexual obsession and the occasional class at Cambridge. She's a bottle of nitroglycerin that Irene knows just how to shake.

When she goes up she'll have the satisfaction of taking Irene and half a city block with her. She can hardly wait.

Irene insists on being called 'The Woman' or 'Ma'am', and after a week she can manage either with a completely straight face. Irene calls her 'pet' or 'my pretty little girl' or sometimes 'Miranda' - the latter only when they're in class together. They whisper and giggle and run their hands up one another's thighs under the desks.

They misbehave, oh how they misbehave.

She never wants it to end, even though she knows it will. Irene likes shiny new things, things she can't have. It makes Miranda think of magpies and ravens and other bright-eyed, avaricious birds. 

They shoplift together and rush home to make love on their ill-gotten gains. Irene fucks her with the handle of a silver boar-bristle brush they stole earlier. The girl called Miranda sobs with joy as she comes apart over and over and over again.

She learns new things to impress Irene when the shoplifting loses its luster. Learns to whistle thirty-three distinct birdcalls, how to hack a bank's website in under thirty minutes and to field strip and reassemble a Glock blindfolded. She can hit a bulls-eye dead center from twenty-two meters even with Irene fingering her clit and purring naughtily in her ear.

It is completely bloody magnificent until the day it isn't.

She's not all that surprised in the end that it's Irene who uses her safe word first. She'd known, had seen it coming in a million different ways: Irene's eyes lingering on some posh chit at the club a little too long, the way she's started wearing stockings with seams and stiletto fuck-me pumps, that she can't come any more without beating Miranda black and blue with her wicked little riding crop first.

Yes, she saw it coming, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. "You're just not enough, darling." Irene's lips are impossibly red and comprised of straight, sharp little angles. She wants to kiss the red right off them, cut herself to pieces on the razor-like edges. She wants to shut The Woman up the only way she knows how. Irene just shakes her head and asks, "Are my seams straight?"

She watches her walk out of their student flat on four-inch heels and Miranda feels each and every step as though she were lying splayed out like the rug. Miranda wonders how she's possibly going to afford the rent. She thinks she would've preferred immolation after all.

\---

Two months later she's in London crashing on a friend's couch and still hacking websites, but she's moved on to the Ministry of Defense. It's not the same, it can't be, but it gets her up and dressed in the morning. That's something.

She thinks she knows how this will end too. And maybe she's watched one too many episodes of Bad Girls, but prison scenarios featuring hard-faced women in dowdy jumpsuits now dominate her masturbatory fantasies. She wonders if they'll let her bring her boar bristle brush along inside.

What she doesn't expect is to be tossed into the backseat of a black Mercedes sedan with government plates on her way home from an internet cafe. Nor does she expect the nattily dressed tosser with the soft voice and razor wire smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miranda."

She just watches him, the way his suit falls neatly and impeccably from his wide shoulders, the way his hands rest lightly on the handle of a black umbrella, his close-cropped red-brown hair and slightly receding hairline. If he's here to arrest her he's going about it in a charmingly unexpected way. She much prefers the backseat of a Mercedes to the backseat of a patrol car.

"You might consider this an interview. I have something of an eye for talent, you see."

She searches for something lewd in either his words or his tone but there's… nothing. It's a simple statement of fact. He finds her talented enough to kidnap on a well-lit street in the middle of the day and whisk off to, well, she has no idea where they're going. Oddly, all she can bring herself to feel is profoundly flattered.

He smiles and it's less predatory, almost paternal. "I think you'd do well on my team. I assure you the compensation will be quite generous, and our benefits package is second to none."

She can't help running through every sex scandal she's ever seen in The Sun involving some naïve young political staffer. She can't help picturing herself in one of those spreads and wondering if she'll look ridiculous. Can't help wondering if Irene will notice. "I'm… I'm not really secretary material."

His lips twitch again. "My needs are a bit more… esoteric. You would be my personal assistant and your tasks would include scheduling meetings, greeting officials and diplomats, running the occasional errand, oh and I'd probably ask you to shoot someone," his voice is as smooth as his Italian silk tie, "from time to time."

Her trigger finger jerks automatically, and her hand suddenly seems heavier and more solid than it has in months. She wonders vaguely if this is what phantom limb syndrome feels like. Taking a deep breath, she hopes her voice doesn't shake too much as she says, "I thought you worked for the government."

"I occupy a rather minor government office," he agrees blandly and hands her a crisp white card with an office at 2 Marsham Street listed on the front. She wonders when members of the Home Office started hiring college dropout assassins and has to admit poli-sci has never been her strong suit. She flips it over to read the name Mycroft Holmes in a tidy, masculine font.

Her eyes meet his translucent ones. They both know she's going to accept the offer, there was never really any question about that. She thinks a position in the Home Office might suit her just a teeny bit better than a prison cell. All right, a great deal better than a prison cell. She likes the idea of working for a Very Important Person, she likes the idea of generous compensation, and, if she's honest, she rather likes the idea of shooting people.

He nods, almost to himself, and raps the glass pane between themselves and the driver lightly with his umbrella. "I'll expect you in my office, properly attired, at 9 o'clock Monday next."

She's clutching the card like a lifeline. "Okay."

"I took the liberty of directing a small wardrobe stipend to your… somewhat depleted account. I hope you don't mind." He doesn't look as if he gives a good goddamn whether she minds, so it's probably best that she doesn't. He pulls out an honest to god gold pocket watch as the car rolls to a stop. After a glance he snaps it shut and adds, "It's been a very real pleasure, my dear. I look forward to a productive working relationship."

She responds with what she hopes is a confident smile, but her face feels numb, as if she's just come from the dentist. A burly, well-dressed man opens the door and helps her out. She doesn't really need help but accepts it graciously. Somehow she's not terribly surprised to find herself right back where she started. She waits until the car has disappeared into the mid-afternoon traffic to dash to the nearest Chip and PIN machine to check her account.

The number makes her toes curl in her trainers, and she stands staring dumbly at it until a waiting man berates her rudely. She prints a receipt and slips it into her pocket. She pulls it out another three or maybe five times just to reassure herself it's real. 

Before she heads to her friend's flat she stops to buy herself her first pair of obscenely expensive stiletto heels. By Sunday evening she can walk in them almost comfortably. She thinks she's ready. She quickly discovers she's profoundly wrong about that.

\---

When she arrives, right on time, Mr. Holmes is waiting for her and greets her cordially. His suit is gray, his tie a pale blue, both complement his eyes rather nicely. He smiles and launches into a standard "Welcome to the team" speech, but gestures her over to one of the potted plants. She follows, baffled, and he directs her attention to a small device neatly hidden by its healthy leaves like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat.

Her eyes widen, and this time his smile is surprisingly toothy. He continues droning on about mail delivery times and how she can go about obtaining a parking pass should she need one. She's not really paying much attention to the words; she's too caught up in his silent tour. In all he indicates three more listening devices before saying, "Well now that bothersome business is settled, please step into my office. There are one or two forms I'll need you to sign."

She takes a seat before his frankly Orwellian desk. It's distinguished, intimidating, perhaps a bit stodgy but definitely elegant; much like its owner, she imagines. 

"Apologies," he begins, settling into his own chair. "Every office has its little…eccentricities. Here I'm afraid that includes listening devices. Of course my patience with them extends only so far. I allow them in the outer office as a courtesy to certain interested parties but they are not tolerated in here."

He thumbs through a file that she notes, with a start, has her name typed in neat little letters on the tab. "I hope you don't mind, I created a plausible c.v. for you and cleared your security checks myself." It's just a formality; he doesn't actually expect her to object, so she doesn't. "You may wish to familiarize yourself with the former." And that's less a suggestion than an order. 

"This is for you. My people have assured me it's quite secure. In general I prefer voice to text or email, but if discretion is better served by the latter I can be quite flexible." He hands her a BlackBerry phone, and she's never loved an electronic device more in her life. She swears she can hear heavenly choirs singing. This comes as a bit of a surprise, as she's had a profound, almost religious relationship with some pretty fantastic vibrators over the years. She clutches it to her chest and tries very hard not to squeal like a little girl.

\---

And suddenly it's as if she's in class again, but this time she can't quite seem to soak the information in quickly enough. He introduces her to the inner workings of the government with a combination of care and patience that she's not expecting. He doesn't seem to be a firm believer in the philosophy of "sink or swim"… at least with her. 

She wonders if it's chivalry and thinks there might be a bit of it lurking around the edges. The hand he offers her to exit the car, holding open the door as she strides briskly behind him, the hand in the small of her back as he guides her through a crowd. There are a thousand little gestures that indicate he's been well steeped in manners regarding the opposite sex. Is he the product of a single mother? Or perhaps he and his mother were simply very close? She only took an introductory psychology course so she's really not in the best position to say.

But she also thinks he likes the role of teacher, or at least fancies having a protégé to guide. She thinks she might be a placeholder for that role in his life but she doesn't mind. Not really.

At first she doesn't really see much of a difference between her employer and the hundreds of other identically dressed bureaucrats cluttering up each office and hallway. But it quickly becomes apparent that two things set Mr. Holmes apart, the first being that he doesn't seem to be a politician at all. For another she's not certain he has any superiors. She assumes he must answer to someone, after all she's forwarded a few calls from Buckingham Palace. Elections interest him on more of a theoretical than practical level, and though Prime Ministers may come and go, Mycroft Holmes remains a dapper, dispassionate constant. He is the central axis upon which the British government inexorably turns.

The second thing that sets Mr. Holmes apart is that he seems to know everything about everyone. It could, she admits, have something to do with the obscenely thorough CCTV coverage to which he has almost unlimited access. It must play a role in his apparent omniscience, but that doesn't fully explain it.

He sees things. No, he sees everything. And that's amazing in and of itself, but she doesn't quite grasp how that leads him to know what he does.

He notices her noticing, of course, and smiles with one side of his mouth. Then he points out some tiny, unnoticed detail in the world around her. Inconsequential, pointless little details that shouldn't mean anything seem to be speaking a language she can't quite interpret.

At lunch Mr. Holmes bids a polite farewell to one of the Prime Minister's aides. As the man walks away he leans toward her and says, sotto voice, "His cufflinks." One finger peels away from his ever-present umbrella to point at the retreating back of their recent lunch guest.

She blinks and attempts to discreetly eye him. The man's too far away, though, so she gives her employer an apologetic look. It's multi-layered, even if she had managed to see the cufflinks she'd have no idea what she should take away from the state of them.

"Mismatched." The way he says it makes her think it's the punch line to a joke she's supposed to find quite humorous. When she doesn't, he just smiles lopsidedly and allows himself a soft sigh. She wants desperately to avoid producing those sighs, but she's still new to the concept of real world omniscience.

It's overwhelming and exciting and terrifying all at once. She loves it, as scary as it can be to sit in a room with stony-faced world leaders discussing terrorist groups, civil unrest, nuclear non-proliferation pacts, it's also the most amazing experience of her life. The hours are mad, the work exhausting, and she can't honestly imagine herself ever wanting to do anything else.

They don't discuss the subject of her name for the first six months. She's noticed he simply refers to her as "his assistant" or "my dear" when they're in public together. It's not clear why, precisely, but she assumes he must have his reasons. Then one morning he says, "Miranda doesn't really suit you, does it?"

She's never thought so either; Miranda has always felt too small, like a crop-top she feels obliged to try to yank down constantly. "I've been called Mira," she offers a little hesitantly.

His expression plainly says, 'That's not all you've been called.' But he's always polite with her, gentle and patient, so he asks, "How would you feel about Athena?"

It's exotic and rolls off his tongue like cigarette smoke, slow and lazy. She smiles. "Athena?" Goddess of wisdom and warfare, she supposes that does rather suit her.

"You can still be Miranda here, if you like, but I think it might be wise to use an alias in public." 

She thinks about it for a moment, and maybe she's been having a little too much fun with anagrams recently, but she can't help making a counter offer. "What about… Anthea?"

The smile she receives isn't carefully considered, it's small and tentative and absolutely genuine. She's almost certain she'd happily step in front of a bullet to earn another.


	2. "I'm sorry about your umbrella."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea learns a new skill set and expands her already impressive resume.

The first assassination attempt happens on a Tuesday evening as they're leaving one of three MI-5 safe houses just north of Russell Square. One instant she's tapping along behind her employer, the next there's the high-pitched ping of a bullet off the brickwork to her right. Before she knows what's happening Mr. Holmes has his umbrella opened, blocking the sight line of the shooter and is hustling the two of them into the back seat of the Mercedes.

He drops the umbrella with obvious regret and slams the door shut. They're in motion before she remembers she has a job to do and is ringing the security detail. Heads will roll, but it's unclear whose associates bear the blame for this massive cock-up.

It isn't until she's confirmed two teams en route that she notices him studying her with even more intensity than normal. She blinks and realizes he's worried… about her. "I'm all right, sir. You?"

It could just be the lighting, but she thinks she sees him relax marginally. "No harm done then." His smile is almost placid, and she starts to wonder if maybe the man lacks an adrenal gland because this goes way beyond even his normal unflappability. 

"Who…?" she begins, but he cuts her off with a weary wave of his hand.

"It would be imprudent to speculate without any data." Which she translates to mean that he has at least half a dozen plausible theories but no clear front-runner at present.

"I'm sorry about your umbrella." She wants to say she's sorry she didn't spot the sniper, sorry she hadn't even realized someone might want to actively kill her employer… sorrier still that someone does.

He just gazes out the tinted window, mute and thoughtful. While he's distracted she calls up the Fox Umbrellas website on her mobile and orders another black Malacca handled umbrella. It will be waiting for him on his desk first thing Monday morning. It’s the very least she can do.

\--

There are actually two things waiting for her on her desk when she arrives at the office: one is a package from Fox Umbrellas, the second is a Firearm Certificate for a SIG Sauer P266 and an AWM sniper rifle. She stares at it for at least a minute, mouth hanging open, before she sits down in her chair… hard. 

When she calls up her schedule for the day she notes an hour of time slotted in at the gun range. She didn't schedule that time. For a few seconds she gives in to panic, worried her employer is sending her some subtle, indecipherable message. Was he disappointed in her? Is this a suggestion that she's now to be demoted to bodyguard?

She calms herself with some effort. The first time they'd met he'd mentioned shooting people. Perhaps now he's got a viable target for her?

God, she really hopes so.

But first she gets to spend her lunch hour with a rangy retired MI-6 agent learning the proper use of firearms. The SIG comes naturally to her, and he's effusive in his praise from the start. The sniper rifle is a bit more of a challenge.

He just smiles at her, adjusts her aim and gently corrects the angle of her shoulders. She's glad he doesn't ask her why a PA needs to learn this because she wouldn't have the first clue what to tell him. After a rather frustrating series of shots clipping the edges of the target and leaving sad little rips instead of nice tidy holes, she straightens and says, "I don't think I'm cut out for this."

"If Mr. Holmes thinks you are," he replies, his voice gravelly but kind, "then you are." He pauses to just look at her for a moment. "Here," he says, "let's try this. Take off those heels and your blazer."

She does so and lines up her shot again. Her feet are freezing but she has to admit she feels more… grounded, more stable. "Right," his voice is soft in her ear as he says, "now before you take your shot you take a nice deep breath in and let it all out. And remember, caress the trigger, nice and gentle." He lowers the ear protectors back down and taps the top of her head to let her know she can begin.

Her next three shots are all in the ten hole, and when she grins up at him he gives her both thumbs up.

\--

As it happens her employer does have someone for her to shoot, and after five weeks of training mostly with the sniper rifle, she's ready. He sends her out with two men he refers to as Elias and Sixto. They are to begin with simple reconnaissance and report back in two hours time.

She thinks maybe he's easing her into this; it is her first mission after all. But neither of the men assigned to her so much as raises an eyebrow. She just smiles and nods and hopes she's not trembling too visibly.

Elias is a dark, slightly paunchy man in his middle years whose nose was once broken and clearly poorly set. It makes his eyes seem to lean slightly to the left and his mouth slightly to the right. He's quiet and efficient and never takes off his black leather gloves.

Sixto is a bit younger with ginger hair and a long, serious face that transforms on the rare occasions he smiles. He fills her in on the basic details they've received so far: their target is a single shooter with no strong ties to either foreign governments nor terrorist organizations. He's likely to be a freelancer, possibly working for a criminal organization, and they need to take him alive.

There are a few fuzzy CCTV stills, and she squints at them dutifully. "Don't worry, he'll be easy to identify," Sixto drawls in his thick northern accent, "he'll be the one with the rifle."

Elias pulls the car into an alley in Croyden, and they sit quietly watching a townhouse for the entire two hours. No one enters or leaves, and the adrenalin burns off slowly leaving her tired and limp in the backseat by the time the car's in motion again.

Sixto turns on the stereo and begins singing along to "Blister in the Sun". He's got a damn fine voice, and she smiles and relaxes, tapping her foot along with the beat. It's a little surreal, but in a nice way.

The next two evenings follow the same basic pattern. They watch the townhouse, no one comes nor goes, and Sixto sings along to the radio on the drive home. On the fourth night, however, Elias tenses like a cat and when she follows his eyes she sees a rather non-descript man carrying an equally non-descript black case. She knows that case; she's got one identical to it stowed in the trunk. Sixto smiles, glances back at her and says, "See? Told ya, simple."

And just like that they're out of the car and moving carefully up to the house. The men don't immediately draw their weapons so she follows suit, leaving her SIG nestled in the holster against her ribs. It's a profoundly comforting weight.

Elias moves soundlessly to the rear of the building while she and Sixto move up to the door. He gestures her to the side and nods for her to draw her gun. In one smooth, almost effortless movement he draws his own and kicks in the front door.

The noise is explosive, and she flinches back a little as he bursts into the sitting room. She's on his heels almost immediately, covering his back and searching for their shooter. As she moves down the hallway she hears the back door slam open and a shout from Elias. She and Sixto pound towards the rear of the house in time to see Elias grappling with a powerfully built twenty-something bloke with a chin like a shovel.

Sixto jumps into the fray, but their shooter's got several inches, a stone or two and boatloads of adrenalin in his favor. He shakes them both off with disturbing ease and starts to leg it through the garden. Before he gets ten feet she lines up her shot and takes him down with a clean through and through to the thigh. The boys look a little stunned until she hisses, "Well go fetch him before the police turn up!"

There's no music on the ride back this time, just the soft groans of the injured man with every rut in the road or unexpected turn. She's almost tempted to feel sorry for him, until she imagines her employer bleeding out in front of that safe house. Then she's almost tempted to shoot the bastard again.

Mr. Holmes is waiting for them at The Station, a private little MI-5 workspace with thick cement walls, observation rooms and an overall air of oppression. They dump the man into one of the uncomfortable metal chairs. "I… I need a hospital," he moans.

"So I see." Mr. Holmes takes a seat directly across from him. "I must apologize for the enthusiasm of my employees, but I really felt as though you and I should speak face to face."

The sniper grips his injured leg and stares down at the small pool of blood collecting beneath his chair. It's not much of a pool; she didn't hit an artery or even a major vein. For several seconds the slow drip, drip, drip is the only sound.

"I don't appreciate being shot at, Mr. Rand," Mycroft glances up with a brief, insincere smile. "Yes, I do know your name. It wasn't terribly difficult to ascertain. I know about your rather sketchy childhood, your father's drinking problem, your escape into the armed forces and your dishonorable discharge when you chose to follow your father's rather unfortunate path. What I don't know, however, is how someone with your formidable marksmanship skills could possibly have failed to hit his target."

The other man's eyes drop once more and what remains of his resolve seems to melt away. "I wasn't meant to hit you."

She thinks he's lying, must be lying, to try to save himself, but Mr. Holmes is nodding thoughtfully and replies, "So you were meant to send a message. I assume that message is, in part, that your employer is able to kill me whenever he or she chooses. However, I fail to grasp anything further from it. Am I meant to do something to avoid this fate? Avoid doing something?" He sighs and spreads his hands in an almost helpless manner. "I despise inaccuracy, and I'd really prefer to receive the message in its entirety. I would, of course, love to go directly to the source, but I rather suspect you have little to no idea who that might be. Am I correct?"

A nod is his only response.

"Your instructions will have to suffice then. Please be as accurate as possible, leave nothing out."

He does just that, unfortunately the details are painfully unenlightening. Mr. Rand is released and offered a rather lucrative government position much to his astonishment. He'll need to commit to Alcoholics Anonymous, of course, Mycroft is quite firm about that. 

She finds herself oddly ambivalent about the entire mission. It was exciting and terrifying and boring and disappointing and annoying all at the same time. She just wishes they'd gotten more information, a name would've been lovely. But Mr. Holmes seems almost… pleased by the outcome.

Well they did gain a reasonably talented sniper. But they still don't know who hired him or what this mysterious person really wants-only that they know about Mr. Holmes and just how important he is to the nation. She thinks, maybe, her employer might be just a little flattered by that.


	3. "I've no interest in another position."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea faces loss and love and loss again.

Her father's death doesn't come as a shock. It doesn't feel like she's stuck her hand in the electrical socket as the words are spoken. This is no tingling jolt. No, nothing like that at all; it's more like a sharp blow to the midsection. It's a pain she doesn't think she should be able to survive; it should be fatal… it feels life threatening. And yet, here she is sitting at her desk, one hand clutched around her phone the other around her computer mouse.

It's not that they'd been all that close since she came out, or ever really if she's totally honest about it. But at least he still talked to her, still loved her. And now he's just… gone.

She's determined to stiff-upper-lip her way through the day but her employer has other ideas. "Go home," he says kindly, but with just enough of an edge to make it clear that he'll brook no argument on the subject.

"But sir…"

He places a gentle hand under her elbow and guides her up and out of her office chair. Part of her wants to resist. She's stronger than this... she should be able to handle it. She's reasonably sure if Mr. Holmes' father had just passed away he'd nod, smile politely, thank her for the news and simply carry on.

"Actually," he says, as if she'd just voiced everything aloud instead of the semi-privacy of her own mind, "I was fifteen when my father passed away. Christmas holidays." Mycroft keeps a hand on her elbow as he guides her from the office and down the corridor. "My mother retreated to her room. My brother ran wild around the grounds for three days, hardly unheard of under even the best of circumstances, though, so not terribly indicative of any specific emotional response on his part. I spent a great deal of time reacquainting myself with the more maudlin aspects of Chopin's oeuvre. Well," he amends, as if it's an afterthought, "I indulged myself between meetings with the executor of the estate, the minister, the household staff, and so on."

"I don't play the piano," she says softly as the lift doors open.

"Neither," he replies with an echo of a smile, "are you a fifteen year old boy. You're a grown and very capable woman. I'm sure you'll think of something, my dear."

All she can come up with, unfortunately, is the pub just a half block from her spartan little flat. She's never actually stopped by the The Crown and Lilac, though she's glanced through the windows frequently. There's a certain bartender who's caught her eye; the woman is tall and lean with spiky white blonde hair. She's the antithesis of Irene, which makes her, in a word, perfect.

They chat over a couple of bottles of Strongbow. The bartender's name is Patricia, and Miranda uses her real name out of habit though it feels a little odd in her mouth. They both love 80s pop music, detest scented candles and tend to vote Labour. To be honest, though, at the moment she's far more interested in getting into the woman's pants than exchanging life stories. Luckily Patricia seems to have the same idea.

She insists on going to Patricia's place as she's not sure whether she remembered to clear out the sink or if she left the SIG sitting out on her coffee table as a paperweight the evening before. The other woman's flat is large, spacious and utterly bohemian. It's like walking onto the set of a BBC comedy about a quirky art student, complete with somewhat unnerving paintings with a vaguely figural subject matter, clothing draped and dropped on every conceivable surface and takeout boxes piled on the card table acting as a dining set. 

That's really all she has time to notice before Patricia is tearing off her jeans and tank top and Miranda reciprocates with nearly giddy enthusiasm. It's been far too long and she's panting and shaking before they've done more than snog and grope each other. 

She wants nothing more than to lose herself in touching and tasting and smelling another woman until her senses block out her regrets and grief. It's going to work. She knows it's going to work because it has to. She's all out of ideas; it's not like her playbook was bloody well stocked to begin with.

It's unclear who's more surprised when she bursts into noisy, ugly tears.

She manages to choke out an apology, sits on the futon and buries her face in her hands. The sobbing amps up marginally when she feels a warm arm encircle her and she thinks she's whimpering out explanations because Patricia is murmuring comforting words into her ear. "I'm so sorry, luv, I'm so sorry."

The hormones and excitement give way to exhaustion and a pain that settles deep in her gut. She starts to reach for her clothes, to flee back to her empty flat where she can finish falling to pieces in privacy. Patricia's arms encircle her and she says, "Stay."

So she stays, curled up on a lumpy futon under bedding that smells as if it hasn't had a good wash in the better part of a year. There's a warm, lanky body spooned up close and Patricia's nose is tucked up against the back of her neck. Patricia strokes a hand along her arm, tracing patterns in her skin with long artistic fingers. It's… nice.

\--

The day of the funeral is grim and strangely hushed. It's early fall and the wind is just starting to test its teeth on her wool coat. She's chilly and the sky is whispering dark threats so she tugs her scarf a little closer. She stares at the cathedral with dread. It's been a long time since she's voluntarily been in a church. She considers it a mutual agreement; her faith was never the bone deep certainty her mother seems to possess, and when she came out there seemed little point in continuing the charade. 

Father Marcus is kind; her mother isn't. She accepts that the two of them will never be able to have a real relationship unless she wakes up one day and is suddenly attracted to men. Most of the time it doesn't matter because there's an entire city between the two of them, but today it's just a few pews.

Her mother won't look at her and neither will her little sister, and she's got to admit that hurts more than she'd expected. She doesn't blame Jenna; their mother's been grooming her to be a true believer since her first communion. Jenna is already married with two kids under the age of five. Miranda's an aunt twice over, and she's never met her nephews. 

In a way, though, she thinks she's a better aunt than most. After all, she's helped defeat three crime bosses, two major terrorist threats and sent an email that helped stop a war. She's kept her nephews, their city and the entire nation safe, how many aunts can claim that?

The ceremony is long and tedious, exactly what her father would've hated and her mother undoubtedly demanded. The gravesite itself, however, is beautiful and peaceful. As Father Marcus speaks the sky rumbles anxiously and umbrellas suddenly unfurl all around her. She doesn't notice the one that appears above her head until the first heavy drops of rain tap against its surface.

Mr. Holmes isn't looking at her, merely gazing at the priest solemnly. She stares at him for a moment, trying to read something on his features. But there's nothing there; he's as implacable as the veiled marble figures draping themselves on the older mausoleums. She turns back to the priest, but leans almost imperceptibly against her employer's arm. He doesn't draw away.

She throws her handful of dirt on top of the coffin and says a silent good-bye to the man who was, for a time, her entire world. When she turns around she joins the man who has become her new world. He escorts her to a long row of matching black cars. "May I offer you a ride home, my dear?"

"I'm not going home," she says softly, then leans in and kisses him on the cheek.

Mr. Holmes responds with a startled little half smile then tips his head in lieu of a farewell. Almost as an afterthought he hands her his umbrella and ducks into the Mercedes before she can thank him. It's just a few blocks to the Underground and three stops to Patricia's disaster of a flat. She uses the handle of the umbrella to rap smartly on the door. Patricia opens it with a tentative smile and draws her inside.

\--

They move in together after a month and a half, and she can't believe they're one cat away from being the perfect lesbian cliché. Neither of them is any damn good at housework, and it creates a certain amount of tension until a chipper young woman named Andrea turns up on their doorstep one morning with a bucket filled with cleaning supplies. "Compliments of Mr. Holmes," she chirps and sets their flat in order with near military efficiency.

There are still problems, of course and most relate to her schedule and its complete insanity. Mr. Holmes is very understanding and tries to see to it that she's out of the office at a reasonable hour and isn't disturbed on most weekends. Still, nationwide emergencies aren't nearly as considerate, and sometimes she can go for nearly a week at a time without laying eyes on her girlfriend.

After Mr. Holmes manages to uncover a terrorist-bombing plot based on no more than a few seemingly unrelated articles in The Sun, he decides they've both earned a bit of a holiday. She's pretty sure his will consist of sitting in his family's estate in the country, drinking some very fine scotch and not speaking to anyone for a few days. Hers is a getaway to Blackpool with Patricia.

They gamble a bit, walk on the beach a bit, even go out clubbing. Most of the holiday they spend in their rather lavish hotel room reacquainting themselves with one another's bodies. Patricia possesses both surprisingly strong hands and a wickedly talented tongue. Miranda remembers to bring along the edible massage oil and orders a truly obscene number of strawberries. Life, she decides, is very good.

Their last day is cut short when she receives a very apologetic call from her employer. Patricia just sighs and starts packing as soon as the phone rings. They don't talk much on the drive back.

She's not sure when she realizes that Patricia has started to draw away; she hadn't really noticed the unaccounted for absences which is odd in retrospect. She's trained to watch for things like that, to notice them and to draw conclusions from them. But Patricia's home less and less often and is even sleeping elsewhere more often than not before Miranda thinks to mention it to her.

Patricia just looks at her for a few seconds before asking, "Just noticed, huh?"

What can she possibly say to that?

\-- 

He looks up at her in the midst of signing off on one of the hundreds of budgetary files littering his desk and simply says, "Oh."

Of course he knows, probably knew Patricia was planning her little exit speech two weeks earlier. She sort of wishes he'd brought it up then so she could have arranged a moving company for the weekend rather than mid-week. Is it wrong that she's more annoyed at the inconvenience than the end of a relationship? Probably.

She smiles winsomely and shrugs her shoulders. He returns her smile and goes back to his paperwork. She's about to leave when he offers, "London can be a very dangerous city, accidents happen all the time." There's something very like humor in the cinereous eyes that flick up to meet hers.

She pauses as if in consideration, then shakes her head, "I don't think so, sir."

"Deported?"

That makes her giggle. "Possibly."

One of the loveliest aspects of her job is that it affords her very little time for introspection. It demands her attention like a spoiled child and she indulges it: thumbing through emails, setting up appointments, chasing after Mr. Holmes as he winds his way gracefully through a maze of bureaucracy. Her work is her life, and she finds that rather than resenting, it she's a bit grateful.

Still, when she finally drags herself to her new flat and falls into bed, she finds her face buried in the pillow hoping to tease out some lingering scent of Patricia. But Andrea followed her like a lost puppy and settled into her three day a week schedule as if nothing had happened. The woman is a bit obsessed with laundry and insists on washing the bedding at least once a week. Patricia has been rinsed away leaving only a fresh, lightly floral scent.

She thinks that might be for the best too. She hasn't been back to The Crown and Lilac since the break up, though she has peeked in on the CCTV footage once or twice. Patricia's new lover is a leggy blonde with a fondness for Chanel suits. There's no point to looking after that, save to play into her own painfully obvious masochistic tendencies.

The holidays arrive with an almost shocking suddenness. She used to notice things like fairy lights and Christmas carols; now her focus has narrowed to emails flagged 'important', calendar alerts and lunchtime orders for a roomful of Very Important People. It isn't until she nearly walks right into a shop Santa that she realizes the significance of the date.

The week before Christmas is spent at The Station watching Mr. Holmes calmly, patiently take several men apart and put them back together in a way that suits his needs. He is of the opinion that they may be connected to the 'interested party' who sent Mr. Rand with his calling card. He hopes they'll lead him back to their employer. Two of them turn up in a morgue on Christmas Eve. Mr. Holmes is not pleased.

She spends Christmas Day eating Chinese takeout and organizing her closet. It occurs to her that she's forgotten how to simply lie about and feel sorry for herself. She's received no cards and only one gift, an obscenely expensive new laptop from Mr. Holmes. She got him an amusing tie-pin in the shape of an umbrella. He actually laughed as he admired it.

Boxing Day is surprisingly sunny and warm as she greets her employer and they head for the garage. It is also very nearly their last day on Earth. Mr. Holmes grabs her arm and all but yanks her away from the car before she can slide in. His face is calm as he dials the bomb squad and asks her to tell their driver to please remain absolutely still and wait patiently until he receives further instructions.

They wait behind a pillar a few yards away as the squad carefully locates the bomb and sets to work defusing it. Mr. Holmes creates cryptograms for her to work out to pass the time. By the time she finishes one of the trickier substitution ciphers that includes an amusing anecdote about the Egyptian foreign minister, the bomb squad are wrapping up. Their driver staggers out of the car looking pale and shaky, and Mr. Holmes sends him off with a sincere apology.

Her employer inspects the bomb with his usual degree of thoroughness and notes an almost invisible series of letters and numbers. They seem entirely random to her but he tenses and says, "Interesting." She waits for something more, but he seems lost in thought and she knows better than to try to disturb him.

They return to their office, and he asks her quietly to clear his schedule then sits down at his desk. He's still there three hours later when she enters with tea and a light lunch. His hands are steepled and resting against his lips on the desk and his eyes are a thousand miles away. "Sir?" she prompts gently.

He blinks after a few seconds and manages a weak smile. "Thank you, my dear."

She smiles back. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"Sit down for just a moment." He indicates one of the guest chairs with a graceful wave of his hand. She does so ,and he continues, "It appears that there is a very intelligent and dedicated person or persons at large who is aware of our work and desires to hinder it." His lips twitch almost unconsciously. "Well," he amends, "'hinder' might not be the most accurate term. I don't believe the bomb will be the last attempt on my life. Indeed I feel quite certain these attempts will increase in frequency and determination. It may not be… entirely safe for you to continue in my employ."

Her breath catches and her hands clench on the smooth wooden arms of the chair. "Sir?"

"I could find you an excellent position elsewhere. You'd be an asset to any team and I'd be happy to…"

"Sir," her hands are shaking but her voice is quite steady and firm as she says, "I've no interest in another position."

He sighs softly and holds her eyes in a searching gaze. She's not sure what he sees there, but she hopes it's her own certainty that there is nowhere else on this planet she wants to be. There's no one else she wants to work for. Before he can try to convince her otherwise, she adds, "I've started in depth research on everyone who came into contact with our vehicle in the last twenty-four hours. It will take me a few more hours to finish going over the security camera feeds from the garage, but the angle of the camera isn't terribly good. We may get a general idea of the perpetrator but I'm not sure…"

He holds up a hand to cut her off. "Thank you. We may need to monitor employee bank accounts, though it's entirely possible that blackmail or even kidnapping may play a role in this endeavor. We can't afford to underestimate our opponent."

She nods firmly. She'll find out who did this and why and serve them up to Mr. Holmes on a silver platter. "Sir, the code on the bomb, was it a message?"

"Yes. It read, 'Kill you later, Mr. Holmes' and was simply signed 'M'." He leans back in his chair fingering the umbrella tie-pin idly. "It was a rather clever little cascade cipher. I look forward to meeting this M."


	4. "You want me to…observe your brother, sir?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea discovers that her employer is actually mortal enough to have both health concerns and a very annoying younger brother.

Her employer is a ridiculously busy man. He trusts her with many of the tasks that allow him to keep up with a schedule the leader of any superpower would find daunting. There is, however, one task that he keeps to himself, as if it were too precious for even his most trusted ally.

She only knows about it because he'll sometimes shoo her out of the office under one pretense or another. It isn't the shooing or the pretenses that tip her off, however, it's the worried little frown that sneaks onto his face when he thinks she's too absorbed with her BlackBerry to notice. Well, that and the biscuit wrappers she finds in the bin the next morning.

Of course she doesn't mind being spared yet another task on her already overflowing to do list. If Mr. Holmes is the hardest working man in Britain then she is most definitely his female counterpart. Her schedule should have driven her mental ages ago, but she's learned how to self-medicate. She snags the occasional nap, turns to the internet to catch up on her favorite programs and has a profoundly clinical obsession with her calendar software.

But Mr. Holmes, larger than life though he may be in many ways, is still subject to the odd slings and arrows of this mortal coil. Add to that his general distaste for medical examinations and ability to push himself long past the point where any sane man would have passed out, and a collapse of some sort is just… inevitable really.

When it arrives they both think it might be a heart attack or at least the prelude to one, but he insists on driving to the hospital in their car. She'd argue with him but prefers not to waste the time. Bart's is closest, but he categorically refuses to go there and of course won't explain why. So she huddles next to him in the backseat hoping she remembers enough CPR to keep him alive. She never lets go of his wrist, following his too rapid pulse as if it were her own life's blood pumping through that overtaxed organ.

It isn't a heart attack, but his doctor makes it very clear that he'll require follow up appointments with a cardiologist and a few "lifestyle changes". Mycroft seems to find the suggestions that he lose a bit of weight and stop the on again, off again smoking sensible enough. However, he imparts the final bit of advice to her with a roll of the eyes. "Perhaps a more relaxing profession?"

She smiles sympathetically but does manage to talk him into taking the rest of the afternoon off. While he's gone she quietly removes the stashes of biscuits and sweets he has secreted about the office. The cigarettes go next, and finally the makeshift ashtray he's tucked behind the complete set of The History of the Peloponnesian Wars, first edition.

She also sets him up with a Weight Watchers account and downloads a pedometer app to his phone. She insists they walk more and schedules follow up appointments with a cardiac specialist. He'll make those appointments if she has to tranquilize him and drag him there herself. She'll keep him alive and well for as long as she can because she thinks she might… no, must be the closest thing to family he now has.

That is, of course, until she's introduced to Sherlock. Well, 'introduced' is something of an overstatement. They aren't technically introduced-rather as Mr. Holmes is forced to rein in his daunting schedule to something just this side of sane, he actually asks her for help.

"It's of a… personal nature," he says quite tentatively. Tentative fits him like an ill-tailored suit, and he shifts a bit uncomfortably.

She smiles encouragingly, thinking he may want her to start picking up his dry cleaning or maybe paying off a former lover or two. She wouldn't mind either, honestly. In fact, she's rather delighted to find out he has some approximation of a 'personal life' to require assistance with.

He shows her into a small office one floor down from their own to a bank of CCTV monitors atop a wide wooden desk. Each is labeled with a different location identifier and timestamp. On the desk is a file folder that reads S. Holmes.

"My brother," he offers calmly. "Please familiarize yourself with the particulars. I simply need you to keep an eye on him for a few hours. Record the rest and have the digitized video forwarded to me."

"You want me to… observe your brother, sir?"

He grimaces, clearly regretting the necessity of his request. "Yes." 

"I see." She doesn't really, not at first. But after a few nights of watching the man plunge from manic histrionics at various crime scenes to morphine-induced coma-like states in the rat-trap he calls a flat, she sees all too clearly.

It's no wonder Mr. Holmes is so concerned about his little brother. The latter is the sort of tragic-comic disaster-to-be of which operas are made. She's pretty sure there's not enough Valium in the world to get her through more than a few minutes alone with him.

When Sherlock's only long-term playmate at the Met goes on his honeymoon, the former throws himself into a veritable narcotics orgy. Mycroft looks pale and weary and makes multiple trips to his brother's flat on Montague Street. He comes back each time more exhausted and snappish than the time before.

She hates being snapped at when she's done nothing wrong, but she can't find it in her heart to blame him. Sherlock seems to have that effect on people. He's like steel wool applied directly to the nerves, given the reactions of everyone who's been forced to interact with him.

Something terrible is bound to happen, how could it not? The chemical reaction that comprises Sherlock is and probably always has been highly volatile. Two parts mind-altering drugs and three parts boredom thrown violently into the mix leave her anxious and jumpy with the knowledge that an explosion is imminent. After all, she was an unstable mixture herself not so very long ago, and it takes one to know one.

It comes with more of a whimper than a bang, three days later.

She sees Holmes the Younger approach a dealer with his usual air of disdainful superiority only mildly dampened by the raw, pinched yearning all but coming off him in waves. She's watched this before, many times, and almost turns back to the novel she's been making her way through with dogged determination. Almost.

Angry body language on the dealer's part soon escalates to words and an invasion of personal space that has her reaching for her phone automatically. Sherlock could leave, should leave, but he's been spoiling for this, may well have intentionally instigated it out of sheer bloody mindedness. Before the first punch is thrown she's dialed her security team. 

He holds his own at first, he's fast and agile and his reach is almost absurd. But he has spent almost a fortnight treating his body like his own personal rave party, and it's reached the end of its tether. When he does collapse after a blow to the face, she can't help feeling a mixture of fear and profound satisfaction.

The dealer gets in several strong kicks to the downed man before two large men dressed entirely in black materialize out of the darkness. The one she recognizes as Sixto looks up at the CCTV camera and dials her number. "He'll need an ambulance."

"Stay with him until it arrives," she replies. "Have the other one brought to The Station."

Sixto just nods, and she watches as the dealer is dragged off. He's a small man, but tough, and she's profoundly glad he relied on muscle rather than a weapon. That would be a phone call she'd rather not make.

Of course this one isn't terribly pleasant either.

Mycroft answers on the first ring, "What's happened to him?"

"He's been injured in an altercation," she says, her voice smooth though her hands are shaking. "He'll be at Royal London Hospital within minutes."

"And the assailant?" He doesn't sound terribly surprised nor unduly alarmed, just calm and a bit tired.

"I've had him sent to The Station." She hopes she hasn't overstepped. "He'll be there shortly."

"I see." She can hear him rising and pulling on his jacket. "Please have a car sent for me and be so good as to meet me there, would you?"

"Not the hospital, then?"

"No… no, I think I should like to speak to the other gentleman first."

\---

"Now then, Mister…" Mycroft pauses to pull out a small leather bound notebook, flip through several pages, then read, "Jenns, is it?"

She mostly ignores the pantomime; Mr. Holmes received all the man's details via email before he crossed the threshold of the highly secured facility simply known as "The Station". He enjoys the pretense of fallibility, of normality, though, and often pulls out that little notebook as if it somehow contained the entirety of Britain's secrets between its tidy covers. 

The dealer sneers, clearly unimpressed. Given his rather lengthy history with the Met this is not terribly surprising. Of course the man should realize this little tête-à-tête bears precious little in common with his usual drugs collars. Still, he'll cling to his bravado for as long as he can, hoping to outlast her employer. "Just book me and have done with it, already."

Mr. Holmes glances up, carefully tucks his notebook into an inner jacket pocket, and seats himself on a hard metal chair across from the other man. "Mr. Jenns I'm afraid there's been a bit of a misunderstanding. You are not, I'm afraid, in police custody at present."

"Where the bloody fuck am I then?"

"You are in _my_ custody." The words are soft, dispassionate and utterly civil; the smile on Mr. Holmes' face, however, is none of these things. It is a quiet promise that Mr. Jenns will soon be praying to whatever deity he chooses to believe in that he was in police custody.

"And who are you then?"

"I am the brother of the man you just attacked."

The dealer may not be a clever man, but he has enough sense to realize he's in dangerous, uncharted waters now. She watches him shift in his seat, arms crossing defensively, his scowl faltering. "So what happens now?"

"Now," Mycroft says, crossing his legs and smoothing away some non-existent lint, "we have a chat, like two sensible men of the world."

"What kind of chat?"

"A rather straightforward one. I will ask you questions and you will answer them. You won't lie because if you do I will know and then our conversation will become less… straightforward if you take my meaning. At the end of our chat I will give you your instructions and you will follow them to the letter. If you deviate from them in any way I will be informed and our next chat will be a great deal less amicable."

Jenns understands the threat but hasn't yet realized that the rules to this new game leave him no room to maneuver. His dark eyes narrow and he sneers, "Yeah, all right, I've had enough of this cloak and dagger bollocks. I want my solicitor, and I want him now."

A rather put upon sigh is his only answer.

"I know my bloody rights! You can't hold me here!"

"And yet," Mycroft replies with an airy gesture about the room, "here we are."

"I ain't sayin' another word without my solicitor so you can just piss off!"

"I see. Well I had hoped to avoid an extended stay for you in our facility, but if you're adamant about this…"

"What do you mean? You can't do this!"

"I think you'll find, Mr. Jenns, that I can."

"You've got no bloody clue who I work for, do you? When Mr. M finds out about this he'll burn you, burn you good!"

That gets her attention. She glances over at her employer who's also quite intrigued by this bit of information. "Mr. M? I'm afraid we haven't been formally introduced."

"Yeah, well, you want to keep it that way."

"Quite the contrary. However, I believe we've veered slightly off topic. Allow me to shift the focus of our discussion back to the subject of my brother and your future in the recreational drugs market."

Jenns snorts and rolls his eyes. "You got nothin' to say about it, you pillock. Your brother's a junkie, and there's fuck all you can do about that. Keep you up at night, does it, the thought of him prowling the East End for a fix? The thought of all the naughty little things he gets up to in them back alleys. Bet that smart mouth of his is good for more than just talkin' down to the rest of us. Bet he's been on his knees more times than…"

Mr. Holmes is on his feet in one smooth, violent motion, his eyes never leaving the grinning man seated before him.

"Touched a nerve there, have I? Think your precious brother's too good to suck off a dealer or two to get his fix? 'Cause I don't, I think when it's bad enough and he's shakin' and sweatin' and ready to scratch his own skin off, he'd beg me to ram it right down his throat."

"Anthea," her employer's voice is calm again. Too calm. "Please be so kind as to exit the viewing room and wait for me outside. Ten minutes." 

When Mycroft walks out of the room after precisely ten minutes have passed, he's cleaning his hands fastidiously with what was his pristine pocket square. He rolls down his sleeves carefully and buttons them back into neat perfection. The only sign that anything is amiss with him at all is the tiny smear of dried blood on the gold band that never leaves the ring finger of his right hand, and the slight reddening of the knuckles, of course. He'll need to get some ice on them sooner rather than later.

There's a chemical cold pack in the first aid kit, which should be in the boot of the car. She's about to mention it when he says, "That was unenlightening but decidedly satisfying. Pity. Ah well, we'll need to shift a few items on tomorrow's itinerary."

"Of course, sir." Her voice betrays no hint of dismay over the scheduling nightmare that tomorrow has become. 

"There's been no call from the hospital?"

She just glances up with a tentative smile to cover her surprise. It's not a question he should need to ask. He should simply be able to look at her, take in the state of her blazer, the way her hair is tucked behind her right ear and _know_. Her world feels like it's tilting wildly off its normal axis. 

Belatedly her head gives a jerky little shake, and she hands him his umbrella. He hooks it over his elbow and pauses long enough to rub his eyes wearily. Mr. Holmes hasn't slept in almost thirty-two hours, and she reminds herself that he is many things but she's reasonably sure "human" is one of them. The mind might be willing, but his body is beginning to raise the white flag.

"Sir…"

"I need to..." He pauses and rethinks his wording. "I'll be with my brother." He glances back at the room he's just exited, his lips a moue of distaste. "Please see to it the room is tidied."

She knows how much he detests messes and nods a bit more firmly. It should be alarming that she's got a man on speed dial whose sole purpose is to deal with situations precisely like this one. He's number three on her phone; she presses the key and gives him the address in a tight, clipped voice. He arrives precisely half an hour later, and she gestures to the room with her head while scrolling through the latest emergency emails. Rescuing her employer's brother has seriously set her back.

She sees him enter out of the corner of her eye but doesn't notice him return for several minutes. Sergei stands in the doorway patiently and she glances up. He's not the kind to ask for detailed instructions, and it isn't as if they haven't done this dance once or twice before. Well, maybe more like a dozen times before. She raises an eyebrow eloquently.

"He's not dead."

Her eyes flick back down to her mobile and all she says is, "No." It's the same dry drawl her employer uses when reality stubbornly refuses to bend to his whims. She can feel Sergei's eyes on her; he's studying her thoughtfully, but she doesn't have time for this. She's got to figure out a way to reschedule a vitally important meeting with the Pakistani Minister of Defense tomorrow and he's notoriously touchy about schedule conflicts.

Sergei just moves silently back into the 'enhanced interrogation' room, and a few seconds later she hears a wet snap. Then he begins to hum softly as she hears the buckets and cleaning supplies being unloaded. The tune is rather nice, familiar too, and she's humming along before she recognizes it as "Short Skirt, Long Jacket". Her lips quirk as she sends two quick text messages that neatly re-order the day to give Mr. Holmes time to visit his brother in the hospital without creating an international incident with Pakistan.


	5. This doesn't bode well for international relations.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea "enjoys" her first real conversation with brother Sherlock and decides that she may just need to shoot him somewhere non-life-threatening.

When she checks the GPS on her employer's phone she realizes he's spent the night at the hospital. This doesn't bode well for international relations. She sighs and stops at his townhouse in Pall Mall to pick up a fresh suit and his toiletries. They won't have time to return here before their first meeting, and she won't let him arrive in a suit he slept in.

She finds the room easily enough and sees Sixto sitting just down the hall in a visitor's chair. He's doing his level best to blend in, but between the expensive tailored suit and shock of ginger hair, he's failing utterly. She gives him a quick nod as she hurries by, noting he's got perfect line of site on the room.

When she opens the door she finds Sherlock tracing the swollen knuckles of his brother's hand thoughtfully. Mycroft is slumped over in his chair, his upper body draped next to his brother's hip. She sincerely hopes he's gotten at least a bit of quality sleep; he's going to need it.

As she walks over to the bed, Sherlock's eyes flick up and skim over her. They are so similar to her employer's that for an instant she forgets to hide her thoughts and feelings safely away. Mycroft has always possessed a skeleton key to the doors of her mind so she's never even considered locking him out. She doesn't think she wants to give Sherlock similar privileges. You never know what a junkie might be apt to steal, after all.

"He didn't…" His voice is surprisingly deep, much deeper than his brother's. There's a question in his words that she immediately understands; she shakes her head because Mr. Holmes didn't kill Jenns. Technically speaking, neither did she, so she doesn't think Sherlock will be able to suss out anything further about the incident from her.

The younger Holmes relaxes slightly and draws his hand away as she leans over to gently shake her employer awake. He blinks up at her with red, gummy eyes. "Sorry, sir, I'm afraid I had to reschedule the Pakistani Minister for ten."

He nods mechanically and notes the time on the wall clock. Then he looks at his brother. The two hold one another's gaze for at least a minute. Nothing is spoken aloud, but she's quite certain there's a rather intense conversation going on.

Finally Mycroft murmurs, "This has to stop."

"That's not a decision you get to make."

He takes in his brother's bruised, pallid face and simply says, "It is if you intend to remain in London."

Sherlock sucks in a breath then manages a single harsh bark of laughter. "You're going to banish me then?"

"I intend to discover your true priorities."

"You can't just…"

Mycroft stands up slowly, sleeping in that chair has done terrible things to his back. "I can and I will."

"Mummy won't stand for it."

"She'll be unhappy with me, I fully accept that, but my tolerance for this behavior is at an end. If you truly wish to pursue this downward course, you'll do it elsewhere. I hear Sussex is quite nice this time of year."

Sherlock's expression is a mix of horror, frustration and despair for all of ten seconds, and then just as suddenly it's once more a blank slate. No, in truth his face reminds her more of the white marble sculptures she's seen in the British Museum. He's like a haughty Roman emperor gazing impassively on the petty foibles of his descendents. 

When he speaks the spell is immediately broken. He's just a tired young man with a sore jaw and a sad mop of dark curls drooping over his half-lidded eyes. "I could go to Liverpool… or Manchester."

"You could indeed," Mycroft agrees almost amiably, "of course you'll have no money or police contacts, nor anyone to make all those inconvenient little drugs arrests disappear before they reach trial. I expect building a new homeless network as you learn the ins and outs of your chosen city will keep you busy enough for a time. Not engaged… not truly interested, but certainly busy. And no more meddling big brother to stand between you and the rather pedestrian little overdose you seem so determined to inflict upon yourself." He smiles without any pleasure. "Why, it sounds quite ideal."

"And the alternative?"

Her employer goes utterly still; she's not sure he's even breathing as he gazes down at his brother. She thinks she forgets to breathe too. "The alternative is a brief stay in a very pleasant rehab facility, followed by a new contact at Scotland Yard. DI Gregson will be transferred to Leeds shortly after his return. His new wife will be delighted as her people reside in that area. I will locate a new contact, one that will not be nearly as tolerant of your little habit as Mr. Gregson. Your incentive to remain clean will not be down to your own best interests, nor my preferences for you, rather your desire for work. You will have access to your allowance, your little 'spy' network and the entire city of London with a few notable exceptions; my townhouse being one of them, the Diogenes Club is, of course, the other."

The silence in the room is oppressive, and she really, really hates to interrupt it but time is growing short. She clears her throat quietly. There's no way she's facing down the Pakistani Minister's aide again in as many hours.

Her employer's lips quirk slightly, and he gives her a polite nod, accepting his travel bag and suit wordlessly. She watches him retreat into the restroom to change and reaches automatically for her BlackBerry. They'll stay on schedule today or she'll die trying.

She feels Sherlock's eyes on her almost immediately but thinks if she ignores him he'll eventually get bored and return to contemplating his brother's ultimatum. Sadly, it would appear that today is not her lucky day on a variety of levels. When he speaks again there's none of the petulance that seems to bleed out of him when he speaks to Mycroft. He sounds more like one of her professors at Cambridge, to be honest. "You're sleeping with him, aren't you?"

Before she can do more than blink up at him, he glances down at her hands and then corrects himself, "No, no it's not about sex, just sad little daddy issues, how dull."

She's reasonably sure she'd be offended if she could work out how he'd made that particular leap. Almost unconsciously she glances down at her hands and back up at him curiously. With a sigh and a shrug she shakes her head and turns back to her reliable BlackBerry. She just needs to stay focused for a few more minutes. She knows her employer won't dally with an important meeting looming.

"You actually enjoy his manipulations, don't you? You're the puppet who delights in her strings-better dancing to his tune than remaining a sad little pile of limbs on the floor, hmm?"

So that's what Holmesian contempt sounds like. She'll file that away for future reference.

"I wonder who it was that convinced you that you weren't capable of facing the big bad world on your own." He's musing aloud now, as if she were some mildly interesting mathematical conundrum. She'd be concerned about this, but her understanding is that the elder Holmes brother is far better when it comes to maths than the younger. "A former lover… _the_ lover, the only one who's ever mattered, she…"

"That's quite enough, Sherlock." Mycroft is once again impeccably dressed and settling his jacket into place as he re-enters the room. He holds out his hand and she slides his umbrella into it without missing a beat. "Do give what I've said some thought, I will await your reply. You know how to reach me."

He's marching out the door before his brother can formulate a response, and she's hot on his heels. She's never been so happy that he has insanely long legs and a quick, efficient stride. Mr. Holmes gives Sixto a sharp nod as they pass then uses the tip of his umbrella to summon the lift. "I must apologize for my brother, he can be somewhat… uncouth at this hour of the morning. Particularly after a trying night. I do hope you'll forgive him."

She smiles. As first encounters with Sherlock go she doesn't reckon she fared too badly. After all, she didn't add to his impressive collection of bruises, so she'll score that under the win category. And they're right on schedule for their meeting so no harm done.

Additionally she's learned a little something about the brothers. Sherlock speaks quickly, words and thoughts tumbling out in a frenetic heap. They cause blunt force trauma or surgical incisions, but they always leave a mark. He wants them to, needs them to.

Mycroft's words come slowly. They drift almost lazily and are accompanied by tilts of the head, half smiles, and significant looks. He uses them like a rudder, steering the listener in the direction he wishes them to go. His words leave no visible scars; they would be useless to him in his chosen profession if they did.

But they do linger, like the scent of cigarettes in a smoker's flat. They are… insidious. She thinks that this is one of the traits that makes her employer the most dangerous man in Britain. No, she knows it is.

\--

She's reasonably sure the next time she sees Sherlock Holmes she's going to shoot him just on principle.

Not in the head or chest, but somewhere devilishly painful though not life threatening. A wound that will land him in hospital for a few, blissful, Sherlock-free days. That's not too much to ask, is it?

Thirty-three hours into his rehab and the man slipped past the facility's supposedly impenetrable security and buggered off for parts unknown. He had, of course, tossed his phone and was clearly relying upon his indigent mates to keep him off their radar. It was only a matter of time, of course, until one of the "network" turns on him. Sherlock could, she was given to understand, inspire profound loyalty in his compatriots. Sadly for him his brother's access to funds far surpasses his own. And the homeless, loyal though they might be, couldn't afford to turn down the sort of money she's been authorized to offer indefinitely.

She'd have him. She'd offer him up, hog-tied on a silver platter to her employer before the week was out. And then she'd take a long hot bath in her brand new claw-foot tub. With bubble bath. And champagne. Maybe strawberries too.

They have leads, of course, almost too many. She's currently attempting to remotely break into Sherlock's laptop to see if he's left a trail of breadcrumbs for her to follow. If she hasn't managed it after a few more tries she'll turn to Mr. Holmes who will, no doubt, accomplish what she couldn't in under five minutes. She'd feel a little sheepish about it if she worked for anyone else because she's damn good at what she does, but the Holmes brothers are in a league entirely of their own.

She's already searched Sherlock's flat, which produced three vials of cocaine, one illegal revolver and a cache of false identification that would make James Bond envious. She worked out the sock index as soon as she glanced at it. Her employer uses a similar, though infinitely more complex system. She's reasonably certain he won't know she's been there at all until he goes searching for trouble in one of three very distinct forms.

Before admitting defeat on the laptop, she gets an alert that tells her someone is using Sherlock's bank card to withdraw two hundred pounds. She calls up the footage from the automated teller machine and makes a note of the homeless man Sherlock trusted with the task before forwarding everything on to her employer.

She hears him speaking softly to Sixto before emerging from his office, coat and umbrella in hand. "I've summoned the car, would you be so kind as to accompany me on a little excursion?"

Smiling brightly she replies, "Of course, sir. Have you located your brother?"

"His whereabouts at present are immaterial," he demurs smoothly, "it's where he will be presently that's rather more significant."

"And where is that, sir?" she asks, wrapping herself in her favorite black cashmere shawl.

"He's off to pay our mother a little visit."


	6. "They tried to force me to do crafts!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea visits the Holmes ancestral abode and finds herself in an episode of Masterpiece Theatre.
> 
>  **Author's note:** This chapter was almost completely inspired by the first conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft in "A Study in Pink". Mycroft mutters about their bickering always upsetting Mummy to which Sherlock archly responds " **I** upset her?" It got me to thinking, maybe Mycroft had done something that had pushed their mother farther than even Sherlock had managed.

She's never been to the family's ancestral estate just outside of Chipping Onger before, but she's let herself imagine it a few times. She thinks it will be beautiful but austere, impressive, perhaps a little intimidating and certainly a far cry from quaint. She's correct for the most part; Sherringford House is not one of the grander homes she's seen, but it stands quite proudly amidst truly exquisite grounds. There are pristine, sculpted gardens and even a small pond.

They enter through an immense double door, admitted by an elderly butler who looks like he just stepped out of a BBC costume drama. The man brightens when he sees Mycroft, then his expression goes somewhat wary as he glances to what she supposes must be a parlor or sitting room of some sort. She almost wishes she'd had a few wealthier friends growing up. As it is, her short-term obsession with _Upstairs, Downstairs_ doesn't seem quite up to the task of allowing her to feel even vaguely at ease. She wonders if perhaps she should have come in through the servants' entrance.

Mycroft's eyes follow the butler's, and he allows himself a brief sigh. She interprets that to mean the younger Holmes brother has already arrived. She winces slightly, and even though she's only vaguely aware of the inner workings of the Holmes family, she realizes this can't be good.

"Master Mycroft, it's always a pleasure, sir. Your mother…"

"Is holding court in the north sitting room along with my brother if I'm not mistaken."

"You never are, sir," the butler replies with a calm smile.

"Well, I'd best not keep them waiting any longer. Daniels, could I trouble you to look after my assistant? Perhaps you could see her to the study. I doubt this will take long."

"Of course, sir, right this way, Miss."

She notes the trepidation on her employer's face. It's a rare sight, and quickly smoothed away to bland indifference. The expression only surfaces from beneath the calm pool that is his normal tranquil self in the face of extreme adversity or profoundly unpleasant encounters. She thinks this meeting may provide a bit of both with a healthy dollop of family politics thrown in for good measure.

If there is one aspect of her life that is in near complete sympathy with her employer, it is the nature of their relationships with their mothers, she thinks. It isn't something she would ever have guessed before this moment. But she recognizes the look that was so briefly on his face; she's seen it in her own mirror often enough just before facing down her own mum. She knows what she did to earn her mother's disfavor- coming out, juvenile delinquency, not to mention an incorrigible sass mouth and an inability to believe in God- but she can't work out how he might have failed his own. 

He glances over as if somehow sensing her unspoken question, and she favors him with a small smile. He merely says, "I shan't be long, my dear."

She watches him straighten almost imperceptibly, hand his coat and umbrella to Daniels and then stride into the room confidently. He has dismantled warlords and terrorist cell leaders without batting an eyelid, calmly taken tea with war criminals, and on one notable occasion even interrogated a mass murderer for fourteen hours and came out without so much as a hair out of place. It would seem that facing his own mother trumps all of these, puts them painfully to shame in fact.

Daniels escorts her to a charmingly furnished room with wood paneling, heavy oak furniture and enough bookcases to put her in mind of a small public library. She's almost afraid to sit on any of the furniture as she's certain she's seen each piece represented on an episode of _Antiques Roadshow_ or another. Indeed she feels like she should be looking at the room from the other side of a set of red velvet ropes.

What must it have been like to grow up in a home that's probably included in the National Trust? And how heavy a burden must this house have been when it landed square on Mycroft's fifteen-year-old shoulders? She can't begin to imagine that sort of responsibility. At that age she couldn't even be trusted with a small aquarium. She still feels a bit guilty about those guppies…

Instead of trying to make herself comfortable on any of the antiques she walks around the room, letting her eyes roam over the thousands of books lining it. The thick Persian carpet muffles her Manolo Blahniks as she strolls about. One finger reaches out lazily to trace a row of historical texts. If there's a speck of dust in this room she has yet to see it. They must employ a small army of cleaning staff.

Before she reaches the end of the Franco-Prussian section Daniels enters with a tea cart. He pours and asks, "Cream or sugar, ma'am?" She shakes her head and accepts the fine china cup with mild dismay. Her hands are made for handling weapons and thumbing tiny, sturdy little BlackBerry keys, not delicate tea sets probably worth more than the entirety of her wardrobe. She sips cautiously and smiles to reassure the older man that she finds it quite delicious. He gives her an old fashioned half bow in return, his expression one of reserved joy. Clearly he's spent his life in service and takes a good deal of pride in it.

She thinks in many ways they're very much alike. "Would you care for a digestive?" He indicates a tray full of tiny, exquisite biscuits. "Or perhaps a sandwich? I could have the cook prepare whatever you'd like."

"Oh, no, thank you." She has high hopes for a rather expensive dinner on their way back to town. She knows her employer well enough to reckon he'll turn to the comfort of food rather than strong drink this evening. She really shouldn't encourage such behavior, but one overindulgence won't be the ruin of his diet. He's certainly likely to have earned it.

"If you should require anything please simply press the service button beside the door."

She glances at it and nods. A few years ago she might have amused herself by pushing it repeatedly and asking for random, ridiculous things until the staff simply refused to respond. Along with that thought is a ghostly echo of a chuckle. It's deep, full-throated and stained with a thousand memories of caresses, welts and wet, shuddering climaxes. With a start she realizes it's the first time Irene's entered her thoughts unbidden in ages. There was a time when The Woman's four-inch stilettos tracked a silent, well-worn path along the synapses of her brain on a near daily basis.

When did she outgrow Irene? And, perhaps more importantly, how did she miss this development? She wonders idly if Mr. Holmes has a notation on some well-encrypted calendar somewhere that simply reads, 'M- has finally overcome unfortunate attachment to dominatrix.' He probably does.

She wonders what else he has noted down there, what other little revelations he's already seen and jotted down. How long will it take her sadly mundane mind to catch up? And the really troubling bit, will she be pleased when she finally works it out?

She thinks so, if for no other reason than that she doesn't think he'd be terribly sanguine about an egregious misstep on her part. He's guiding her, has been from the moment she slid onto the smooth leather backseat of that Mercedes sedan so many years ago. And she finds that she trusts him to do so on a level so fundamental that it should terrify her. Instead she feels, well, flattered really.

He's seen her, looked deeper into her than anyone else she's ever known, and the shocking bit is that he's both liked and valued what he found there. His time is more precious than most, but he chooses to spend it quite freely on just two people that she's aware of. She, at least, sees it for the rare and treasured gift it is. It's a generosity so staggering that she's profoundly humbled by it.

So Sherlock's rather insulting description of her as a willing puppet is partially correct, but in effect almost entirely wrong. It's such a fundamental misunderstanding that she feels rather sorry for him. He's always had the attention and concern of someone as unique and gifted as his brother; he simply doesn't know what it is to be without it. He'll find out someday, she thinks, but Mycroft won't benefit by it. It'll be too late for both of them.

Her musings are interrupted by what sounds startlingly like small arms fire. She manages to set down the teacup without breaking it or spilling so much as a drop and is out in the hallway in seconds. She sees Sherlock stalking to the door and shrugging into his beast of a great coat with a thunderous look on his face. The door to the north sitting room opens, and Mycroft follows him out. She's never seen him quite this obviously angry before, not even with the ill-fated Mr. Jenns.

"Crafts, Mycroft," Sherlock spits over his shoulder as he turns the knob on the front door viciously. "They tried to force me to do crafts!"

His brother merely glares at him, all pretense of dispassion melted neatly away in the heat of righteous indignation and a profound but frustrated love.

Sherlock shakes his head, dark curls bouncing and jangling in an orgy of chaos. He's out the door without another word. The slamming door cuts off a woman's forlorn cry as she enters the foyer. Her hand is outstretched in a helpless plea to her youngest. She drops it when it becomes apparent that he won't be returning.

Mrs. Holmes is tall and willowy, with sculpted cheekbones and slightly almond-shaped, ice blue eyes. Her hair is as curly as Sherlock's, though far more rational and contained, and a steely gray in color. She's impeccably dressed and seems both uniquely suited to her surroundings and somewhat daunted by them at the same time.

"Go after him, Mycroft. Bring him back." Her voice is rich with levels of meaning that almost render the simple words into a foreign language.

Mycroft frowns and turns back to face her, then says, "It would do no good, Mummy."

"But you know how he is…"

He laughs mirthlessly, rubs his eyes and then snaps, "Oh, I do indeed. But I'm afraid this can't be resolved by dangling a new Stradivarius in front of him."

"If you'd only try to understand…"

"Mother, dear," he interrupts in a clipped, chiding tone, "I believe I can safely say that I understand Sherlock far better than anyone else ever has or ever will. Allow me to explain something that seems to have escaped your attention: Sherlock is an addict. He takes the money you so lovingly shower upon him at his every forlorn bleat and uses it to buy cocaine, morphine and several even less savory chemical concoctions. They are then injected into what remains of his veins. Those of his left arm are beginning to fail him; soon he'll be forced to move onto his legs, then possibly his abdomen once those have collapsed."

Her horrified indrawn breath forces him to pause and calm himself with a visible effort. "I refuse to allow this to go on any longer. You may disagree with my methods but…"

"Your 'methods'?" her voice cracks with barely contained fury. "He's your brother, Mycroft, not some bureaucrat you can order about. You can't mandate him into submission, don't you see that?"

"What, precisely, would you have me do? What's your elegant solution to this rather messy little problem of ours, hmm?" His eyes have gone startlingly cold and his voice is downright arctic.

"Protect him!" she pleads, "Look after him, just as you've always done!"

She's clutching his arm and he glares down at her long, elegant hands until she visibly wilts and draws them back. "You mean the way you did with Father? At least he had the decency to do away with himself privately and efficiently. Sherlock seems intent upon drawing his own suicide out in as lengthy and public a manner as possible."

The crack of her hand against his left cheek and their combined, ragged breaths are the only sounds to be heard for several long, painful seconds. "Leave this house," she whispers, turning from her son and wrapping her long arms about herself. 

"Of course." Her employer's voice is once more calm, and his face as placid as if they'd just been discussing the weather. He reclaims his jacket and umbrella from a rather shaken Daniels and heads for the door. Miranda follows in his wake automatically, hoping desperately that Mrs. Holmes will continue to ignore her presence in this particular family drama.

"He'll never forgive you, Mycroft." Mrs. Holmes doesn't turn as she speaks. "And neither will I."

"I know." Her employer sounds weary and resigned but utterly unsurprised. He steps outside and shuts the door quietly behind his assistant. She gazes up at him as he pauses and takes several long, cleansing breaths. "Apologies. I shouldn't have asked you to come."

She surprises herself by saying, "I'm glad you did, sir." She thinks back to a rainy day at a peaceful cemetery and a calm, silent presence at her side. 

His lips almost quirk into a smile as he looks calmly over the grounds, then says, "We should return to town. Heaven knows what mischief's occurred whilst we've been away."

Their car rolls up nearly soundlessly, and he holds the door for her. As she slides in she thinks that maybe she should have taken Daniels up on the offer of that sandwich. Apparently comfort foods won't be quite sufficient this evening; he'll need some serious problems to occupy his mind. She sighs and calls up her email account, then filters the red flag messages to the top of the queue. It's going to be a very long night.


	7. "I'm sorry, but this really is for your eyes only."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea sets certain plans in motions regarding Sherlock and meets her first CIA agent.

Fortunately Mr. Holmes had the foresight to send Sixto to the Montague flat to retrieve the Stradivarius. Everything else of use is gone within four hours of their return from Sherringford House. She reports this to her employer, who nods in agreement rather than surprise. He thanks her for her efforts and asks if she's made any progress on finding a new contact for Sherlock at Scotland Yard.

She simply hands him three folders without comment. She's more inclined to choose Mr. Lestrade herself; he's got awfully kind eyes and lovely silver hair. He's also got an alcoholic mother who dabbles in pain killer addiction in her spare time. He helped her into several treatment programs but has washed his hands of her after she took up with an abusive drunk in Birmingham. 

He seems almost tailor made for this assignment, but she doesn't want to bias Mr. Holmes.

"I believe DI Lestrade is our best candidate, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, sir." She tries very hard not to sound smug.

"Very well, as soon as Sherlock is finished with his tantrum I'll want a meeting with Mr. Lestrade."

Nodding, she collects the folders and begins to leave. His voice stops her, "You are having DI Gregson's flat in Leeds surveilled, of course."

"Yes. No sign of Sherlock just yet." She hates to tell him that because there's always this fleeting, pinched look to his features when she does. Sometimes she thinks it's worry, others anger, and occasionally she almost believes it might be doubt. She's the least certain of the last simply because she's never seen Mr. Holmes doubt himself before. But it is unnerving to think that's what it might be, because that would mean her employer is actually fallible.

She's not certain her worldview can manage that sort of a blow.

"I'm certain he'll turn up soon, sir."

A smile transforms his face into something more recognizable. "Of course. Thank you, my dear."

She returns to her desk and stashes the folders away. She'll start Grade 3 monitoring on Mr. Lestrade immediately. There won't be any surprises looming when her employer has his little chat with the man if she can help it.

In the meantime, she's perusing the online websites of pawnshops in a thirty-mile radius of London. The weather's warming up, and Sherlock will need money soon. His Belstaff Milford coat will turn up, she'll procure it and his location, and she'll drag his skinny ass back to London with her own two hands if need be. It's really only a matter of time.

While they both await Sherlock's next move she's contacted by the CIA, who are downright desperate for a meeting with Mr. Holmes. When she attempts to ascertain what it is they're after she's at first politely, then less politely informed that it's classified and 'need to know' only. She informs them that her security clearance should cover just about anything shy of an invasion from space and that she is the official gatekeeper for her employer so she actually does 'need to know'.

This goes on for two weeks before a rather unattractive man in a shabby black suit decides to camp out in their office. He treats her like a secretary, and she doesn’t disabuse him of this notion, sliding into a mildly oblivious, wide-eyed persona that gives her the excuse to ignore him. With each passing hour the looks he gives Mr. Holmes' private office grow darker. She's very glad she's taken to leaving the SIG in her locked desk drawer.

Her employer emerges for lunch, and the agent all but leaps to his feet. Her hand goes for the gun automatically. "Mr. Holmes?" the other man says almost politely.

Mycroft pauses and turns to her with a slight frown.

"Agent Neilson, from the CIA," she replies calmly with only a trace of annoyance. "I'm afraid he refuses to discuss the nature of his visit, simply insists upon seeing you."

Mycroft gives her a curt nod and turns back to Neilson. "Apologies, but as you can no doubt see I'm extremely busy just at the moment, and I'm afraid all requests must be vetted by Anthea. I'm sure you understand."

He's about to move past the agent when Neilson blocks his path. It's a rather stupidly aggressive move, and she's on her feet with the gun drawn before he's even completed it. Neilson doesn't spare her a glance. "I'm sorry, but this really is for your eyes only."

"That won't be necessary, my dear," Mr. Holmes sighs. She lowers her weapon slowly. "You have two minutes."

Mr. Holmes turns to re-enter his office, but Neilson simply holds up a smartphone with a series of characters displayed across its screen. Mycroft stares at it silently for several seconds. "Interesting." He plucks the mobile from the agent's hand and heads back into his office. "Come with me, Agent Neilson. Anthea, be so kind as to order in lunch and cancel my remaining appointments. As soon as you've done so lock down the office and join us, please."

Agent Neilson gives her a downright venomous look, and she allows herself a bit of gloating.

Lunch is an uncomfortable affair as Mr. Holmes spends the majority of it transfixed by the phone while scrolling up and down the same screen of text. His chicken tikka masala goes stone cold as he does so. Finally he startles Neilson by asking, "I assume this was sent to a local cell?"

"'The Sons of the Prophet' are spread throughout Europe but this particular cell is in the UK, yeah."

Mycroft nods and asks, "Was this message intercepted or extracted?"

Neilson's wide, thuggish face goes utterly immobile.

"Please don't misunderstand me, Agent Neilson, I'm not interested in your methods as such, simply the context. If this code was intercepted it's far more likely to remain in active use."

"It was intercepted by a deep cover agent," Neilson admits reluctantly. "We have used a variety of methods to obtain information about the code but so far we've had no luck. And before you ask, yes, we've been subtle about it."

Mr. Holmes brightens slightly. "Excellent. This is a rare opportunity, a very rare opportunity indeed. I must admit, however, that I am somewhat at a loss as to why you've approached me with it. Forgive me, but I was under the impression that the CIA was well staffed with cryptographers."

"We are," Neilson mutters, setting aside his napkin. "But according to my superiors and their superiors, you're the best code cracker in the business."

An expression of mild distaste flickers over her employer's face briefly, then he waves the somewhat clumsy attempt at a compliment aside. "I've had some luck over the years, of course, but I think that may be a bit of an over-exaggeration." His eyes flit almost unconsciously back to the phone. She knows, without question, that her employer is all but giddy with the prospect of sinking his teeth into a problem as juicy as this one. It's just what he needs to take his mind off Sherlock for a while.

"So you didn't crack the Manley crime family book codes in under twenty-four hours?"

Mycroft meets the agent's eyes again. "Yes, I did. However, this should prove a bit more challenging. I'm by no means fluent in Urdu; it may hinder my ability to 'crack' this in a timely manner."

"Well, our people have been beating their heads against it for three months. Any help you could offer would be greatly appreciated."

Mycroft nods thoughtfully. "I assume you have more transmissions."

"Many," Neilson agrees. He produces a USB memory stick and hands it over. "If you do make any headway on it we'll need full disclosure."

"Of course."

"And any… actions will require joint authorization and participation."

She watches her employer's face carefully as he formulates a response. She thinks she can read him better than anyone who's not genetically related, but at the moment he's a closed book to her. Finally he smiles politely and replies, "I can certainly agree to that. Will you remain our contact with our American counterparts?"

Neilson relaxes marginally. "Yes. The fewer people who know about this the better." He shoots her a look, and she smiles benevolently back at him.

"Agreed. Please be so kind as to leave your contact information with my assistant."

She takes a certain grim satisfaction in Neilson's obvious discomfort. Perhaps he's ex-military; his bearing and general appearance support the hypothesis. Certainly his disdain for anyone he considers an "inferior" would bear that out. He's dismissed her simply based on her position as personal assistant. She can't blame him entirely, of course, her working relationship with Mr. Holmes is probably quite unique. Still, he seems to be clutching at his disdain almost greedily. It feels more… personal somehow.

He could just be a garden-variety misogynist, she supposes. Lord knows their own government is thick enough with them; she wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised if the same holds true across the Pond. She knows how to handle them, though, and smiles graciously while mentally picturing Neilson with a gaping bullet wound right between the eyes.

The agent retrieves his mobile and follows her to the outer office where he gives her his number and the office phone numbers and names of those already involved in deciphering the code. She enters everything into the personal database system she created for highly confidential contacts and project updates. The man continues to stare at her when she completes her task. It's mildly unnerving. She blinks up at him patiently. "I know what you are," he says at last.

She blinks again. She has absolutely no idea how to respond to this or even what she's really responding to, so she chirps, "Oh?" It's served her well in the past under similar, odd or uncomfortable situations.

His lips thin to an unmerciful line. "We don't allow people like you into sensitive positions for a reason."

"People like me?" 

He leans over her desk almost menacingly. "I don't know how you managed to land this position… Well," he amends with a smirk, "I can guess. I've seen your files, not the ones your boss whipped up for you, the real deals. I know about the arrests, the hacking, the… lesbian affair."

She thinks it's almost amusing how much more disgusted he seems by her relationship with Irene as compared to trying to break into government computer systems. Mr. Neilson is a man with rather interesting priorities. It's something she thinks may be important to keep in mind during their future interactions.

"I'm just going to tell you this once. You jeopardize this project in any way, or if I even begin to suspect you're a liability, you will end up in a hole so deep in a country you've never even heard of for the remainder of your unnatural life. Are we clear?"

Her first thought is that with a simple but powerful strike with the heel of her hand she could, quite easily, break Neilson's nose without so much as marring her manicure. Her second thought is that the resulting fuss might reflect badly on Mr. Holmes. It's that thought that stays her hand just long enough for her to hear her employer clearing his throat from the doorway.

"I believe you've made yourself quite clear, Mr. Neilson," Mycroft says in that soft, polite voice that he usually uses when he's reached the end of his patience with a person or situation. "Now perhaps you'll indulge me as I do the same. My personnel are _my_ responsibility, and I have complete faith in each one I employ. This is most assuredly the case where Anthea is concerned. If you should have any concerns regarding them you will speak to _me_ in future, you will not, and please allow me to emphasize this point, not threaten anyone on my team."

He smiles much less politely and moves uncomfortably close to the CIA agent. Neilson starts to take a step back but catches himself. His chin snaps up belligerently. Definitely ex-military, she thinks.

"I'm certain we all have our own little skeletons in the closet, so to speak. We are all adults, are we not? It would be rather absurd to attack one another over youthful indiscretions. Whether those indiscretions were inappropriate liaisons or, perhaps driving whilst under the influence and killing one's passenger." Mr. Holmes shrugs almost apologetically as Neilson turns an alarming shade of gray. "They really have no bearing on our current working relationship, now do they?"

"How did… those records aren't available to anyone!" Neilson seems to be having a little difficulty breathing.

"No, they're not." Mr. Holmes' smile slips effortlessly from pleasant to predatory. "Nor is the fact that your second marriage is on the verge of dissolution due to your own repeated infidelity and… well, let us euphemistically refer to them as 'anger management issues'."

She thinks Neilson may be on the verge of collapse. It couldn't possibly happen to a nicer fellow. "How?" he breathes at last, his voice hollow and hoarse with fear.

"Information is my business, Agent Neilson, and I am very, _very_ good at what I do." Her employer, unlike his brother, takes no real pleasure in toying with his prey. He goes in for the kill, snaps the neck cleanly and quickly and that's that. She admires that profoundly.

"Now that we've gotten that unpleasantness out of the way, I look forward to a productive working relationship." Mycroft offers the agent his hand politely. Neilson stares at it for several seconds before finally shaking it with obvious trepidation. He's clearly been cowed, though for how long she's not quite certain.

She's never been quite so happy to see anyone leave their office as she is to watch Agent Neilson retreat through the front door. Pursing her lips, she thinks that somehow or another this entire affair cannot end well. With a glance at her employer, she thinks she sees the very same thought written across his normally placid features.

He meets her eyes and gives her an almost helpless shrug. "Well, we can't always work with the people of our choosing. Still, needs must."

She smiles, it could be much worse after all. Agent Neilson is roughly as subtle as a brick through a window, and now that they understand his specific "eccentricities" she's reasonably sure they can deal with him without too many problems. It's a relatively small price to pay for the equivalent of an open line to one of Europe's most vicious terrorist organizations.

It takes her a second or two to realize that Mr. Holmes is holding his now cold lunch with a somewhat helpless look on his face. Her smile widens. He might be one of the most powerful men in the world but the workings of the average kitchen appliance never fail to baffle him. She takes his plate gently and says, "Let me just heat that up for you, sir." 

"Thank you, my dear. I don't know what I'd do without you."


	8. "It would be mutually beneficial, you see."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea and Sherlock reach an understanding and Irene makes an unexpected appearance.

She doesn't even glance up from her phone as Sherlock slides gracelessly into the seat across from her. The café in Dunkirk is small but tasteful, and her strawberry crepe is absolutely divine. She thinks the mild flirting she engaged in with her server earned her an extra dollop or two of their exquisitely rich cream.

She continues to read through her emails and nibble her brunch while Sherlock slumps sullenly in front of her. He manages this for several long seconds before finally blurting, "How?"

Without interrupting the rhythm of her fork she turns the mobile screen to face him. It displays his beloved Belstaff Milford coat on an eBay listing along with the egregious price she was forced to pay to win it. She loathes those last minute bid vultures with a fiery passion.

He snorts derisively; perhaps he'd been expecting her to work out his whereabouts based solely on an obscure variety of pollen left in his flat? She supposes something as practical as an eBay search is beneath him. She doesn't particularly care. It got the job done, after all. And once she'd found him she'd simply had the driver circle the student neighborhoods until she was reasonably sure she'd been spotted.

Catching the eye of the pretty server, Anthea gestures her over and asks Sherlock, "Tea or coffee?"

"Weren't those preferences noted in my files?" he sneers in return.

"Just being polite," she replies casually and orders a black coffee for him. He's been off anything stronger than nicotine for at least nine days from what she can tell, and she doubts he'll turn down any stimulant at this point. He toys with the mug for several seconds before admitting defeat and gulping it greedily.

He's thinner than before and he looks… shabby. It's not a word she's ever associated with a member of the Holmes family previously. In an odd way she rather hopes she'll never have occasion to use it regarding either brother again.

He rather reminds her of a stray cat she took in once. The poor thing was skin and bones and absolutely matted with dust and dirt. It took her days to work out all the matted fur and clean it up properly. Of course, two days after creating a perfectly presentable house pet, the ungrateful little wretch had slipped out the front door between her father's ankles. She'd been devastated at the time, but she sees it as a valuable life lesson these days.

Sherlock finishes his coffee and taps his fingers in a rapid, jittery manner on the table. "I want my violin back."

"It and your coat have already been returned to your flat."

He digests that silently, his eyes darting to the window to dissect the passersby. "How long would I have to…"

"Ten days to start," she says, returning her focus to her emails and setting up the meeting her employer desires with DI Lestrade. "There will be an evaluation at that time and follow up treatment recommended on an as needed basis."

His lips quirk at that. "And my new contact?"

"Will be available to you upon your completion of the program."

"Successful completion, I assume."

She just smiles blandly. Then, almost as an afterthought, she reaches beneath her chair and produces a box of nicotine patches. They sit between them on the table for several long seconds. He eyes it as if he were concerned it might be an IED.

"You're joking."

"It's as good a time as any, wouldn't you say?" She's being decidedly cheeky but she can't seem to help herself.

"Cigarettes aren't illegal," he enunciates each word as if speaking to a dullard.

"Yet," she chirps in reply and gives him a significant look.

"Fucking Mycroft!" he growls and snatches up the box as if he intends to beat his brother to death with it. Given that the man probably weighs all of ten stone soaking wet at the moment, she's not terribly worried. "When?" he grinds out between clenched teeth.

She spears the last bit of crepe and replies, "Now if you like. I've booked you a room at the White Horse Inn and laid out some clean clothing for you. I'll be next door and see you off to the facility in the morning."

He's frowning but it's reflexive at this point. She knows she had him at 'clean clothing'. She reckons he'd just about part with a major organ for a proper shower at the moment. His ice blue eyes flicker up to hers. "I should have thought Mycroft would be here to gloat in person. It is his moment of triumph after all."

"I'm afraid your brother is in Washington at the moment and sent me to see to your needs. He sends his apologies." She's not certain Mycroft would have come even without the need to discuss his cypher work directly with several CIA officials. He knows he would, in fact, have felt compelled to rub his victory in Sherlock's face, and she can well imagine the fallout from that. It's for the best that fate intervened when it did.

She gets Sherlock off first thing in the morning without a hitch and remains in contact with the director of the facility for the first forty-eight hours. When Sherlock stays put after seventy-two without any reports of violence against staff or young Mr. Holmes himself, she allows herself to relax. Perhaps he actually learned something living truly rough for the first time in his obviously sheltered life. 

They say addicts have to hit rock bottom before they're actually ready to change, but she rather hopes that's not the case in this instance. Sherlock may be the biggest git on the planet and a veritable human hemorrhoid to both herself and her employer, but there's something profoundly innocent about the man that makes her feel almost… protective. It's an unnerving realization.

She informs Mr. Holmes about his brother's apparent success in this go at shaking off the drugs, and he sounds almost chipper. She thinks she's lifted at least one monumental weight off her employer's overburdened shoulders and it feels downright wonderful. He asks her if she wouldn't mind stopping by his townhouse to water his plants and then says he'll see her in approximately forty-eight hours.

She would, without hesitation, step between Mr. Holmes and an oncoming vehicle… but she honestly dreads being responsible for his plants. It's not just that she has a black thumb- well, perhaps a black thumb and several other fingers to boot- but he just seems so attached to the things that she lives in near constant terror when she's minding them. Not that he'd fire her even if one of his beloved bonsais went to the Great Garden in the Sky on her watch; but he'd be so dreadfully disappointed.

Fortunately the mini-botanical garden that fills several rooms in his home is attached to an elaborate watering system complete with timer. It all looks rather futuristic and utterly terrifying to the uninitiated. Thin black hoses snake from pot to well-tended pot like electric cables. His tidy little patio garden contains small fruit trees, bushes and a few roses. Everything's blooming with such intensity that she almost wonders if they delight in pleasing Mr. Holmes as much as she does. She spends a few minutes sniffing the heavenly fragrance of his heirloom beauties and noticing which trees will be producing this year. By the look of it, they may have some lovely little plums in the office in a few months.

Inside she does water the plethora of herbs that take up the majority of his granite counter tops. She's found the herbs to be a bit more forgiving overall, always ready to bounce back after a day or two of neglect. They all bask in the sunlight from the kitchen window, and she runs a hand through the foliage, inhaling the heady, spicy scents. They make her almost wish she knew how to cook, and she rather wonders what her employer uses them for as he's completely helpless in the kitchen.

Indeed, he's actually turned his pantry into a mini greenhouse. A space that would normally be filled to bursting with pasta, tinned veg and condiments is currently serving as an orchid nursery. They all seem reasonably happy at the moment, which is a profound relief as she wouldn't have a clue what to do if they weren't. 

Filling the small watering can again she visits the three pampered bonsais in the sitting room. She can't even imagine the hours her employer has spent grooming and fussing over them. Each one is a magnificent miniaturized tree without so much as a leaf out of place.

Finally she enters the washroom to water the truly outrageous jasmine plant that now extends along the length of the entire ceiling. It's the one plant he allows to be as sprawling and impertinent as it likes. And sprawl it does; she's almost certain it's grown a good foot since Mr. Holmes has been away. The tiny white flowers fill the room with an intoxicating scent. For all that it's overindulged she rather loves the ridiculous thing and tends to pamper it a bit as well. She thinks little short of a tactical airstrike could probably kill it at this point, but she makes sure it gets a healthy serving of water whenever she stops by.

She thinks it's too bad that Mr. Holmes is forced to indulge his gardening compulsion in this tiny townhouse in the heart of London. Given that he's still not on speaking terms with this mother from what she can tell, the manor gardens remain forbidden territory. She asked him about the gardens at the house once and he'd replied, "I spent a great deal of time in the garden as a boy. Mother enjoyed beautiful flowers but had no patience when it came to the art of cultivation. I found that I very much enjoyed tending them. They're such simple creatures, so undemanding, I've always found them quite soothing." He'd smiled a little sadly and added, "When he was seven Sherlock decided we should always live there together. I would garden and he would raise bees. It would be mutually beneficial, you see."

She suspects that plan has undergone a few revisions over the years.

Before she leaves she fetches the mail and papers from the plot at the front door and begins organizing them into 'junk', 'news' and 'miscellaneous'. She's never seen Mr. Holmes receive personal letters or so much as a bill at the townhouse. He must have bills, after all everyone does, but she's no idea where they go. She'd guess they were forwarded to an accountant if she could begin to imagine Mr. Holmes retaining one.

As her nimble fingers are working through the stack of advertisements to be tossed, she pauses on the front cover of the half-buried Mirror. All she can see is the long, white line of a woman's exquisite throat and the crimson smirk on her sharp little lips… but she knows who it is. It's Her, The Woman, and for a moment Anthea forgets how to breathe.

The other papers fall from her nerveless hands as she clumsily spreads the Mirror open on the floor. For the first time in almost seven years Irene gazes back at her, imperious, haughty and horrifyingly sexy. The headline reads, "Minister and Wife Caught in Sexy Escapades with Notorious Dominatrix". She bends closer to the paper, trying to force herself to focus on the tiny print of the story, but her traitorous eyes keep straying back to the photo. Finally she leans over and grabs an Indian takeout ad and slaps it over Irene's face.

The story is insipid, containing just enough sordid details to keep the back garden gossips nattering on for days. The scandal seems to consist of both the politician and his wife engaging in relations with Irene unbeknownst to the other. She thinks that is a bit sad but not altogether outrageous. After all, she knows just how persuasive Irene can be.

Her next thought is that somehow this mess will end up landing on her employer's desk for sorting out and he's already got more than enough to deal with. Time taken away from collaboration with the CIA to deal with a political sex scandal seems to be the real crime here. As long as the Minister didn't whisper any state secrets into Irene's ear as she beat him senseless what does it matter? And if he did, well, his career is already ruined and they have people to deal with situations of that sort at The Station.

She pauses then because she's actually just thought about sending her former lover to a holding cell where, in all likelihood, she'd be tortured at best. At worst, Anthea would be calling on Sergei for yet another clean up. For a moment she searches her mind for some bitter little darkened corner in need of petty revenge, but she doesn't find one. She feels… nothing for Irene beyond a certain sexual thrill, a tightening deep in her belly she can't control any more than she could will her own heart to stop beating. But there's no love, no emotional desire, just a simple surge of hormones.

The Woman has become a troublesome coefficient in a vast mathematical formula; she's a piece of irritating information, a problem to be solved, nothing more.

It's a powerful realization, and she gasps aloud as the full implications settle over her. Does this new perspective apply only to Irene? Has she become some unfeeling automaton capable of neatly divorcing fact from feeling? Is she incapable of anything else?

And for one agonizing moment she wonders just how much of a tool Mr. Holmes has made of her.

She shakes the thought off a few seconds later; it's profoundly unfair, and she will not blame him. For good or ill, she is what he most needs her to be, and she can't seem to regret that. And, of course, after the initial panic wears off, she realizes she still adores the nephews she's never actually met, loves their sadly spineless mother, worships the memory of her father and even feels a passing fondness for Patricia. Her mother is a more complicated set of emotional responses, but they are there, and real, and undeniable.

She folds the paper carefully and tucks it under her arm. It wouldn't do to have Mr. Holmes ambushed by this nonsense upon his return. She'll set up a meeting with the disgraced minister and put together files on Irene's activities over the past few years. It's too late to do anything about the press, but they've got one or two friendly reporters on retainer at each of the tabloids for a reason. 

Irene may be adept at lighting matches, but Anthea's gotten awfully good at extinguishing fires in the past few years.


	9. "I'm going to kill him, sir."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea gets a nasty shock and decides that she may need to retaliate with homicide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one contains a little shout-out to my fellow British sci-fi fans :) Also a tiny spoiler for S2 ep 2 "Hounds of Baskerville"

"Sir, it's… that time again." She slides a pile of folders with fanciful names like Torchwood and the ARC across the desk to him. Quarterly financials comprise a trying time in their office. She hates watching his lips sag into an unhappy grimace and knowing he'll end the day with a migraine and she with a queue full of unhappy emails from departments she's not even supposed to know exist.

"My dear, I believe I will require..." he pauses to consider, then says, "no less than a case of middling to fine brandy precisely here." He points one long, elegant finger to the floor just to his left.

"Oh sir," she replies with a pout, "your diet."

She's seen kicked puppies look less mournful, and she's almost overcome by the powerful urge to pat him consolingly on the head. Fortunately he shifts back to a more blandly disappointed expression before she can act on the impulse. "Too right, too right." He heaves a rather forlorn sigh and opens the top most folder. "Ah well."

She knows a dismissal when she hears one and turns smartly on her heels to go. Just as she reaches the door, though, he calls out, "I don't suppose there exists a low calorie brandy?"

She smiles and tilts her head affectionately. "I'll look into it, shall I?"

If it doesn't exist she'll dash off an email to Baskerville and set someone to work on it before next quarter's budgets. It would certainly be a better use of their pet scientists' time than some of the proposals that have passed over her employer's desk in recent years. Little oversight and outrageous budgets, yet their most promising concept to date seems to be glow in the dark rodents.

Sometimes she honestly thinks it would make more sense to just stand up on the top of the building and toss her tax dollars straight off.

At least the meeting with the profoundly dishy DI Lestrade had gone far better than she'd dreamed possible. Indeed she's reasonably sure the detective won over her employer when he growled, "Oh piss off!" and nearly stormed out of the abandoned utilities facility in which they were meeting. She'd been unable to fight back a grin at the look on Mr. Holmes' face before he switched tactics and lured Lestrade back with a combination of mildly veiled threats and a provocative implication or two. Fortunately the man was both intelligent and ambitious, an all too rare and decidedly welcome combination. 

In the end, of course, Mr. Lestrade had reluctantly agreed to take on "The Sherlock Project". She almost feels a little guilty; the poor man has no idea what he's just allowed himself to be politely bullied into. Still, he's bound to have at least slightly more free time than she and her employer… also his own set of handcuffs, which should come in decidedly handy.

While Mr. Holmes toils away at his budgetary Sisyphean boulder, she takes a little time to update some files and begins to slog through the hundreds of emails that fill her queue daily. Two months after she began working for Mr. Holmes she created a code that was handed out to only a few of the most important people in daily contact with their office. This code denotes a message that of the highest priority that needs to be forwarded to her employer immediately.

The code appears on an otherwise innocuous looking email and she double clicks it without a second thought. When it finishes loading she blinks at it for one long moment and then her breath hitches to a stop. For the first time in her life she thinks she might actually pass out.

She forces herself to take several long, deep breaths before re-entering her employer's office. When he glances up at her he's on his feet in an instant. "Perhaps you should sit down," he begins but she cuts him off with a shake of her head.

"Sir, you… you need to see this." She does something she's never done before- reaches out and takes his hand and leads him to her desk. 

He makes sure she's seated before glancing at the screen. His eyes widen slightly and his lips thin; she feels his hand tighten around hers. The email shows the interior of Mr. Holmes' townhouse at mid-day, possibly taken just a few hours earlier. The body of the text is as simple as it is horrifying. 'Left you a little welcome home gift. How was DC? –M'

She feels trapped somewhere between screaming and vomiting at the moment, and she can't seem to take her eyes off of Mr. Holmes. She's not sure what she's expecting to see in his expression; she knows him better than just about anyone on the planet, and she still wouldn't have a chance against him in a game of poker.

He simply stares at the screen for several long seconds before saying, "It would appear our Mr. M remains desperate for a playmate. I'd suspected he might play some part in the code Agent Neilson presented me with. I think that's all but confirmed now." He gives her hand one more gentle squeeze before releasing it and saying, "Please be so kind as to have my neighbors evacuated and then send in the bomb squad. A gas leak should be a sufficient excuse."

"Yes sir," she replies with automated obedience. It helps her refocus her thoughts away from the rather hideous violation of Mr. Holmes' privacy and security. "Would you like to head over now or after the bomb squad has completed its work?"

"Neither, I think. The budgets won't complete themselves, after all." He straightens and taps his lips thoughtfully. "I believe I'll stay at the Club this evening. Though I may have you fetch me a suit and a few odds and sods if you'd be so kind." She nods and he smiles a little wearily. "I do rather wish this M fellow would come by a new hobby. I'm beginning to find him quite exhausting."

Exhausting, she thinks, is hardly the word she would have chosen. M has one of their most important contacts in his pocket, access to their personal information and a penchant for explosive hijinks. No, she doesn't think 'exhausting' quite covers her own reaction.

He has managed to bump himself back up to the top of her priority list, and she'll be loosing her hand-selected hacker pack on this email in a moment. They may not be able to pin down his location, but she's hoping they'll work out just how sophisticated his own tech people are. She does rather wonder why he selected the handle 'dynamics-of-asteroid', though. Another game perhaps?

She spends a few minutes attempting to work out if it's an anagram before admitting defeat and turning to Google. Aside from a few dull and admittedly incomprehensible articles and a decade old thesis by an unassuming young mathematics student she comes up empty. She'll do some more digging on the student, but James Monroe is probably just another dead end.

Instead she starts calling up files on everyone with access to her emergency contact code. Several she dismisses immediately because she knows these men, and their loyalty to queen and country borders on the disturbing. She casts her net a bit wider and begins taking blatant liberties with her security clearance and information access. It probably should disturb her that she can call up an appalling number of facts about almost anyone in seconds flat. Well, it might if it hadn't come in so handy in the past. After all, she had brought a potentially embarrassing minor scandal to Mr. Holmes' attention just a few weeks prior after an in depth perusal of several local bureaucrats' library records.

Frustratingly there are no obvious red flags waving over the culprit's name in this case. No large bank deposits or missing persons reports that might indicate a kidnapping. If it's blackmail she's thoroughly out of luck, at least in the short-term. These things do tend to stumble out into the light eventually, but she really hasn't the time for nature to take its course.

She's dreamed up and dismissed several plans for flushing out their traitor by the time the bomb squad ring to announce the house is clean. She thanks them politely and grabs her jacket, locking the office door behind her. Mr. Holmes will be tied up for the remainder of the day and won't require supper for several hours yet. That leaves her more than sufficient time to take a look around his townhouse for herself. She's not foolish enough to think herself on quite his level when it comes to observational skills, but she knows the place as well as she does her own flat… possibly better. She's much more likely to notice something amiss.

And at the very least she can set the place back to rights and fetch a few things for Mr. Holmes before he heads to the Club.

As expected, the bomb squad have been thorough but as tidy as a small, well-contained tornado. She sighs, automatically picking up the randomly scattered mail, disturbed plants and framed maps hanging sadly askew. His desk is a nightmare but, as it happens, in better condition than his bedroom. Why they felt the need to haphazardly toss his finest suits into a messy pile on the bed is quite beyond her. Were they really expecting to find C4 in one of the pockets?

She hangs them back up, larger suits to the rear, with the smaller more recently purchased suits to the front. Weight Watchers has been working a treat but Mr. Holmes is too pragmatic to think he may never regain the weight. It is, after all, an ongoing struggle.

When she finishes that task she straightens up the chest of drawers and re-institutes the sock index almost automatically. She'll phone the housekeeper and have her come in to deal with the remainder of the mess. She fetches the essentials for Mr. Holmes, packing most of it into his favorite weekend bag, and walks back into the living room. Setting it down, she enters the kitchen for a quick once over and that's when she sees it.

It's a pretty little flower, with a spire of blue-white blossoms and dark green leaves. It sits innocently between the English chamomile and chocolate mint. She wouldn't have even noticed it if she hadn't been here so recently caring for the plants, but now it sticks out like… well, like Mr. Holmes at a rave party she thinks.

The plant isn't labeled, which is another big indicator that something is amiss. Each and every plant in her employer's vast collection sports a neat little hand written nameplate except this one. She moves closer to inspect it more carefully, but there's nothing obviously ominous about it. No wires that she can see, no ticking sounds, no sharp chemical scents that might indicate a dangerous explosive of any kind.

There's nothing out of the ordinary about it at all, at least not that she can tell. However, plants are definitely not her area of expertise. She holds up her mobile and snaps a quick photo then sends it off to Mr. Holmes for his input. Precisely ten seconds later she hears his ringtone; this week it's the song "Umbrella", and answers promptly.

"Don't touch it," is all he says, his words clipped and precise.

She frowns and asks, "Is it dangerous?"

"Very, though generally only to those of us with cardiac… difficulties."

This, she thinks with a rush of pure venom, means war.

"Mr. M certainly is well informed, I'll give him that. Access to my medical records is a tad alarming, but hardly more so than breaking and entering my home." She thinks she hears a trace of a smile in her employer's voice. "Ah well, I had rather been considering undertaking a small poison garden next. I suppose aconite is as good a place to start as any."

"I'm going to kill him, sir." 

Mr. Holmes sighs. "Do try to keep him intact long enough for a brief chat first, if that wouldn't be too much to ask."

She glares at the plant and briefly allows herself to imagine shoving it rather aggressively down the unknown Mr. M's throat. "I'll do my best, sir, but… I can't make any promises."


	10. "Mummy will be so proud"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sherlock acquires a new flat and Anthea acquires a new admirer.

She doesn't realize Sherlock has rented a new flat on Baker Street until she's reviewing surveillance cameras in the old flat and for a moment thinks he's being burgled. She fast-forwards through several hours worth watching him methodically pack up his chemistry equipment and presumably hand carry them via the Tube to his new abode. She checks the live feed and he's still at it. She'd love to know how he's going to get the wardrobe over there. Cab?

With a shake of her head, she sighs and hires two movers with bodies like rugby backs and a lorrie to go over and fetch the remainder of his worldly possessions. She's quite prepared for the expletive-laden text she receives from him approximately two hours later. She smiles and types back, 'You're welcome.'

Within twenty minutes she knows all there is to know about Mrs. Emilia Hudson, her profoundly reprehensible late husband and her relationship with Sherlock. A brief phone conversation fills in the remaining knowledge gaps, though it does leave Anthea scratching her head a little. The woman describes her new tenant as "Such a nice boy. A bit gloomy sometimes, but then aren't we all?"

Mrs. Hudson is either a dotty, lovely older woman with a blind spot for oddballs with sociopathic tendencies or the cleverest actress Anthea's ever met. Her money is on the former, though these days the latter wouldn't exactly surprise her either. An evil genius landlady would, in a strange sense, fit in rather well given the lives the Holmes brothers lead.

What is puzzling her, though, is how Sherlock possibly expects to afford the place given that his funds have been somewhat… constrained of late. Mycroft feels too much ready cash is simply asking for a relapse, and she can't really fault his logic. Fortunately Mrs. Holmes has kept her own donations to a minimum, though she still refuses to speak to her eldest son.

The mystery is resolved twenty-four hours later, and Anthea informs her employer almost giddily, "Sherlock's found himself a flatmate."

A blandly surprised expression is his only response as he hastily raises his napkin to his lips to dab away all traces of roast beef and gravy.

"An ex-military doctor." She slides the folder over to Mycroft who scans it with his usual ruthless efficiency.

"Mummy will be so proud," he murmurs drolly between pages.

"He's rather adorable," she says. And he is in a down-to-earth everyday bloke sort of way. He has none of Sherlock's exotic beauty nor Mycroft's elegant polish, but she thinks she might well fancy him if nature hadn't chosen a different course for her life. "You don't suppose…"

Mycroft's lips twitch as he peruses the man's psychological profile. "Highly unlikely, particularly given that he's quite profoundly heterosexual if his files are to be believed. Still, one lives in hope."

"They'd make such a lovely couple," she agrees. Not just physically either, though they'd balance one another out in that department to be sure. No, Dr. Watson could be just the man to set Sherlock on more stable footing. She can see he's the type to see to it that the bills are paid on time and there's always fresh milk on hand.

"We mustn't get ahead of ourselves. They've only just met and Sherlock can be a touch… challenging to cohabit with." She certainly recognizes the voice of experience there. The Holmesian childhood is not a subject she allows herself to dwell on often. She's curious, of course, but her own youth was quite trying enough; she feels no need to delve into the profound complexity of her employer's. "I suppose we'd best meet the fellow. One can only discern so much from his files. That therapist of his is an absolute disgrace."

She smiles and gathers up the file. "Of course, sir. You've a little time this evening and the warehouse is currently free."

So three hours later she's seated beside a somewhat jumpy and utterly confused Afghan war veteran. She texts her employer while easily batting away the man's questions and flirtations, both of which she can't help finding rather sweet. 'JW very adorable. Also very straight. Poor Sherlock.'

His responses are almost instantaneous, which means he's already onsite and probably a bit bored. 'Be gentle, at least until I've had a chance to speak with him. MH'

'Perhaps I should just go out with him?' A smile is tugging mercilessly at her lips. 'Might learn more than could be gleaned at this meeting.'

'Are you positing that your sexual prowess is on par with my observational skills? MH'

She loses the tug of war with her lips and grins. 'Not at all, especially as I'd be at a severe disadvantage. How does one go about chatting up blokes?'

'I believe it would be customary to note the impressive length of his… cane. MH'

She manages to cover her snicker with an impromptu cough and gives her passenger an apologetic smile. He returns it a little too enthusiastically, and she sighs with a shake of her head. He's persistent; she'll definitely give him that. Still, a man with a lesbian sister should really have a more accurate gaydar.

"Here we are then," she chirps as they purr to a gentle stop. When he continues to simply sit beside her, eyebrows drawn together making an absolute roadmap of his forehead, she adds, "Out you get."

His expression has taken a position in the no man's land between obstinacy, puzzlement and profound unease. She finds it quite refreshing to spend time with someone who wears his mental states like a favorite jumper. He's so delightfully obvious that she really does find him charming. She can see why Sherlock took to him so readily.

He pauses with one hand on the door and the other gripping his cane like a lifeline. "Seriously, what is all this? I feel like I've just stepped into a Robert Ludlum novel."

She carefully chooses the neutral smile that she's perfected over the years, the one that says she's merely the pawn of some massively powerful, possibly nefarious organization. Her expression is equal parts lovely and vacant; he'll read only what he expects to there. She's pretty sure she knows the script that's playing out in his mind and that it bears absolutely no resemblance to the reality that a man with a great deal of power and a profoundly fundamental need to engage in elaborate mind games is deeply concerned about his baby brother. "Best to just get it over with," she murmurs with a more honest smile.

He sighs and laboriously gets out of the car. She watches him limp over to Mr. Holmes, who's leaning rather rakishly on his umbrella. He picked the perfect spot for maximum dramatic effect, of course. Sometimes she thinks it's a shame he decided to rule Britain clandestinely rather than take to the stage.

She sprawls in the backseat, kicking off her pumps. As the two talk she thumbs through her emails; she thinks she's got at least five minutes, maybe as much as ten depending upon how long Dr. Watson's patience lasts. She doesn't know him very well, but she thinks elaborate games like the ones her employer is so fond of are more likely to annoy than intimidate the former soldier.

Sadly, she discovers that Agent Neilson has taken to contacting her directly when he fails to receive a timely response from her employer. She glances up briefly to watch as Mycroft pulls out his small leather notebook. She can't hear what's being said, but she's familiar enough with this particular scene to be able to fill in the dialogue herself. She hopes Mr. Holmes is enjoying himself- he certainly seems to be- because they're going to have to have words about Neilson.

The puzzling bit is that Mr. Holmes actually seems to be avoiding the agent, which isn't like him at all. Her employer is a pragmatist, he understands that avoidance only prolongs issues and creates more difficulties down the road. He prefers to nip these situations in the bud rather than letting them sprawl and grow and set down deep roots. He is a gardener, after all.

If she hadn't worked for the man as long as she has, there is the tiniest possibility that she'd think he hasn't managed to crack the terrorist code. She'd almost be willing to entertain the thought that he was trying desperately to avoid admitting that there was a problem to which his formidable brain could find no solution. But she has worked for him long enough to realize that he's capable of just about anything shy of unassisted flight if he puts his mind to it.

So why, she wonders, is he avoiding the man? She honestly expected they'd turn over the deciphered messages weeks ago, that Mr. Holmes would indulge in a subdued victory lap very probably consisting of an obscenely expensive meal at one of his favorite restaurants. After they'd managed to uncover the financial machinations of a small drugs cartel in Manchester, she'd gotten to choose the venue and hadn't wanted to brush her teeth for days after the meal to prolong the experience.

The question of just what her normally utterly predictable, though brilliant employer was up to regarding Agent Neilson would have to wait. She watches him walk up to the Doctor, who stiffens defensively, earning him a tilted head and wry smile from Mr. Holmes. The latter inspects his hand and whatever he says next unsettles the good doctor profoundly; she can see it in the shift of his shoulders, the tension in his small, well-muscled frame. She watches her employer stroll away twirling his umbrella almost merrily and she thinks John will be staying. The doctor may not realize it yet, but he will, possibly before the night is out.

That, of course, is her cue so she steps out of the car and strolls over. Drawing up behind him she says, "I'm to take you home." She's certain to infuse a bit of mild surprise into the pronouncement as if it were just as likely she'd been expecting to dispose of a body rather than play taxi service. It fails to ruffle him in the slightest, and her estimation of the man rises. Perhaps she'll update her bet in the informal pool she and several of the boys are currently running on how long John Watson is likely to last as Sherlock's playmate. A week was a bit stingy, after all.

The man checks his phone, then glances at the hand her employer had so recently been fascinated by and quirks a half smile. "Address?" she asks to catch his attention.

"Uh, Baker Street," he replies politely, "221B Baker Street."

Halfway to the car he amends, "Hold on, I've got to stop somewhere first."

Taxi service indeed, she thinks wryly and gives him a few points for cheek. He doesn't spend much time in his bed sit. She doesn't suppose he has much to pack, and it is a rather depressing little place. But she thinks the real reason he's in and out so quickly are the text messages he keeps dragging his phone out to scroll through. He's anxious to get back to Sherlock. She finds it almost too sweet for words.

That is until he pauses just before leaving the car to ask, "You ever, uh, get any free time?"

She can't help chuckling as she drawls, "Oh yeah, lots."

A rather odd silence descends between them and she finally drags her eyes up from the BlackBerry to find him peering at her with a hopeful intensity that startles her for half a second. Apparently he requires a somewhat more direct approach. "Bye."

As the car door thunks closed she sighs, "Poor Sherlock."

\--

She's perched in the window of a fourth floor biology lab, her hands are steady, her breathing slow and she's got the perfect shot lined up. She's never shot a cabbie before, but her employer's assured her he's not a very good cabbie… he is a very clever serial killer, however. And, of course, he's threatening Mr. Holmes the Younger so he has to go.

Not, she reflects with a tiny, rueful smile, that Sherlock couldn't just walk away if he wished. After all, the cabbie hadn't had anything more intimidating than a toy gun. Unless she misses her guess, the only reason Sherlock didn't flounce out and text the Met with all the sordid details was because he's had his pride tweaked. 'Are you clever enough to beat me at my own game, Mr. Holmes?' or words to that effect she imagines.

And now he's standing there mesmerized by the capsule he holds between his finger and thumb. Or, perhaps he's simply captivated by his own certainty that he's chosen correctly. How the man has made it to thirty-five is an absolute mystery to her. 

Well, all right, not such a mystery really. After all, Sherlock has the luck of the devil as well as an older brother with an overdeveloped sense of responsibility who firmly holds the reins of the entire nation in his two well-manicured hands. And now, of course, he's also got her and her sniper rifle to remove any inconvenient little impediments like violent drug dealers and mad serial killers.

Her finger just starts to caress the trigger when another shot rings out and she watches her target jerk back and tumble to the ground. It takes a second or two to realize that she didn't actually complete the shot. It takes her several more seconds to realize that from the angle the shooter must be precisely one floor below her. "Bloody hell," she mutters under her breath and runs barefoot across the biology lab. She props the door open and calculates the odds of the shooter opting for elevators over fire stairs, decides they're negligible at best and heads to the emergency door. 

She takes her time and eases it open as quietly as possible; she can hear a bang one floor down and manages to lean to the rail while holding the door open with her foot. A head of honeyed blonde hair is descending the stairs at a quick but controlled clip. The man slides a Browning into the waist of his jeans and tugs his dark, nondescript jacket down over it as he pounds down the stairs.

"Well," she manages as he disappears from sight, "that was unexpected."

She moves quietly back into the lab and begins to disassemble her rifle. It's a quick, efficient process save when she catches the webbing between thumb and forefinger when removing the laser sight. The damned thing always manages to pinch her there and she always promises herself she'll order a new sight, but of course she never does.

It takes less than three minutes for her to slip back into her shoes and jacket and leave the building carrying a small, ordinary looking black case. She does take the elevator because there's really no reason not to and four flights in three inch heels is a little more than she wants to face at this hour of the night. When she walks out of the main entrance she finds the car waiting for her.

The rifle is stowed neatly in the trunk before she slides in beside her employer. "All went well?" he asks without looking up from his phone.

"Did you know Dr. Watson was in possession of a firearm, sir?"

He lifts one elegant eyebrow. "Apparently our records need updating."

"Yes, sir." She's already on it, a little unnerved that the seemingly harmless flirt seated next to her a little while earlier has just committed homicide to protect a man he's only known a few hours.

"I think I'd like a word with my brother."


	11. "You're him, the one they used to call the Oracle of Whitehall, aren't you?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea does her best to ignore Sherlock and discovers her former lover may be involved with an evil criminal mastermind.

They're giggling like a couple of naughty schoolboys as they amble away from the crime scene. She'd chalk it up to nerves if she thought either of them capable of such an ordinary, everyday reaction. Sherlock certainly isn't, and given that she's just watched John coolly execute a man, she thinks his psyche is miles away from normal as well.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited. But that's never really your motivation, is it?" It comes out with a bit more bite than he probably intended but the brothers haven't spoken face to face since the rather ugly scene at the family abode. 

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock mutters, his eyes roaming their surroundings in lieu of meeting his brother's gaze.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

She looks at John, who's glancing from one brother to the other as if he were watching an absolutely fascinating tennis match. 

"Always so aggressive." Mycroft seems to think better of that particular line of commentary and switches tactics smoothly. "Has it never occurred to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

Sherlock, of course, is having none of it and parries back, "Oddly enough, no."

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy."

" _I_ upset her? Me? It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft." Sherlock snaps in return. Mycroft actually drops his gaze to the ground uncomfortably at that; Sherlock isn't wrong and they both know it.

Dr. Watson's expression almost instantaneously transforms from puzzled concern to puzzled realization. "Oh, no, wait," he interjects, "'Mummy', who is 'Mummy'?"

"Mother, our mother. This is my brother Mycroft." Her employer gives John a somewhat chagrined look as Sherlock sneers, "Putting on weight again?"

And that's where she tunes out the conversation because she really doesn't have the patience for Sherlock's petty taunting. Fat jokes at Mr. Holmes' expense make her want to reach for the nearest weapon. There are two problems with that: one that she's mere meters away from a rather powerful sniper rifle and so it'd be child's play to actually carry through with the desire, and two, that she knows John Watson is a damned fine shot, possibly even better than she is, and his Browning's tucked in his waistband so far more accessible.

It's much safer to play Mahjongg Solitaire on her phone and wait for Sherlock to flounce off with his new toy in tow. She's halfway through her first game when John stops directly in front of her and says, "Hello again."

She looks up, smiles and replies vaguely, "Hello."

"Yes," he adds as if jogging her memory, "we-we met earlier on this evening."

Blinking, she gives her head a startled little shake and chirps, "Oh."

"Ok," that's for her, "good night," that's for her employer.

"Good night, Dr. Watson," Mycroft replies politely, watching the man trot after Sherlock like a faithful little terrier. 

"That went well," she quips, calling up their calendar for the next day and making a notation to update Dr. Watson's files.

"Indeed, I'd rather expected Sherlock to be… difficult." 

A reminder pops up and she asks, "Sir, shall we go?"

"Interesting, that soldier fellow."

Anthea looks over at the two as they wander away. Yes, he is rather interesting she has to admit.

"He could be the making of my brother… or make him worse than ever." He grimaces as they both try to imagine what that outcome might look like. "Either way we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade three, active."

"I'm sorry, sir, whose status?" she asks because she can't quite believe he actually thinks she ever downgraded his brother. And, well, after tonight's excitement she'd already made a notation to upgrade Dr. Watson. 

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson," he says almost more to himself than her.

\--

They visit the former Minister of State and his wife three days later. As expected, Irene's little game of husband and wife sexual conquest has ended up square in Mr. Holmes' already overflowing inbox. At least she's been able to prepare him for it, and given the nature of his other tasks, this one borders on the comically insignificant.

Mr. Allen sits on the leather sofa with an air of mildly wounded pride and profound disdain. It's clear he's learned nothing from the experience and would no doubt repeat it if given the opportunity. Anthea can't help feeling a little sorry for his wife.

Mrs. Allen sits as far away from her husband as the sofa will allow, actually leaning over the arm of it as if to increase the distance. Her face is pale and devoid of expression. Her hazel eyes never leave the bay window and the birch tree just outside it. Mrs. Allen is as tense as a bowstring but also somehow divorced from her emotions at the moment. Anthea suspects some sort of pharmacological assistance.

Mr. Holmes introduces himself politely and apologizes for the necessity of the visit. "I'm afraid I must ask you a few simple questions and then we can all put this unpleasantness behind us."

"Unpleasantness?" Mrs. Allen's voice seems a million miles away.

Her husband frowns and interjects, "I'm not even sure under whose authority you're speaking to me. I've already been interviewed by my superiors and even the police, though goodness knows why. Any further questions should really be put to my solicitor."

"Ah well, you see there are certain questions that not even your direct superiors nor the police were actually in a position to ask. I, however, am." Mr. Holmes smiles patiently and asks, "You are aware of the Intendance Initiative I suppose?"

Allen blanches and gives a shaky nod.

"Excellent, then perhaps we could move these proceedings along a bit…"

"I know you now," Allen rasps, his former confidence having melted like ice in the noonday sun. He's all but dripping dismay onto their elegant Turkish carpet. "You're him, the one they used to call the Oracle of Whitehall, aren't you?"

Anthea glances up from her BlackBerry and gives her employer a raised eyebrow. This is the first time she's heard that little sobriquet before. His grimace tells her he's done his level best to see to it that it was retired from active circulation some time ago. She can't think why, after some of the things she's heard him called over the years, it seems rather innocuous.

"Mr. Allen, your former position was of a rather sensitive nature in terms of national security interests. As such, it's my job to make sure that no, shall we say, delicate information made its way into the hand of your… of Ms. Adler."

"You can't think…" Allen's attempt at bluster fizzles out almost as abruptly as it began. He slumps a bit under her employer's calm, penetrating scrutiny. "Well I suppose if you're half what Henry says you are, you'll already know I would never…"

"Henry?" Mr. Holmes interrupts almost rudely. "You don't by chance refer to Sir Henry Jacoby?"

"Y-yes." Allen begins to look like a man passionately hoping the floorboards will spontaneously drop open beneath him. "We're old school chums, and as he's on the Finance Committee we…"

"Have you, by any chance, mentioned Ms. Adler to him?"

Anthea's hands are suddenly gripping the phone so tightly they ache. Her mind is repeating the same pointless mantra over and over, 'Don't let Irene be involved any further in this.' But she knows her employer wouldn't have asked the question if he weren't already almost certain about its answer. Sir Henry is, of course, one of the chosen few in possession of her emergency code for reaching Mr. Holmes.

Mr. Allen's sheepish look lays out the plain truth of the matter all too clearly, and Anthea barely suppresses a groan. So Allen tells his chum about the absolutely fantastic time he's had with a certain dominatrix and Sir Henry's… interest is piqued. He goes round and maybe he lets something slip whilst suspended on a Saint Andrew's cross, or babbles just the wrong thing when she removes the ball gag, or perhaps he leaves his mobile unattended at just the wrong time.

But that doesn't explain how Mr. M managed to obtain it. Are they working together? Did he blackmail her? Threaten her? Anthea decides that for the first time in a rather long while she's discovered a question she doesn't want to know the answer to.

"Well," Mr. Holmes says, all gracious smiles and feigned good cheer once more. "I believe I have what I need."

"You do?" Allen is tentatively inching his way towards relief like a frightened woodland creature.

"Yes, I should think so." He turns to Anthea and says, "Come along, my dear, we've much to do." He shakes Mr. Allen's hand as if innate gentility were overriding his very palpable loathing of the man. Mr. Holmes attempts to capture the attention of the former Minister's wife to no avail. Maybe she's devastated about her marriage or her husband's career following the path of the Hindenburg. Anthea doesn't think so, though, she's seen the look on Mrs. Allen's face before… in her own mirror many years ago.

The physical scars Irene leaves on her lovers are so much less obvious than the emotional ones. She's almost tempted to remain behind and speak to the woman; they do share a language now, after all. But something tells her nothing useful could come of it. Anthea hopes Mrs. Allen's doctor is generous with his prescriptions in future- she's going to need them.


	12. "Americans."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea visits the Club and is the bearer of bad news.

She slips out of her Louboutin pumps and into a pair of puce bedroom slippers in the foyer of the Diogenes Club. Snagging the pumps, she gives Anthony, the doorman, a quick nod and pads silently through the interior entrance then up the winding staircase. The stale scents of old cigar smoke and moldering bureaucrat ebb at the landing of the second story, all but disappearing by the time she reaches the third.

The carpeting is far more plush and less trampled up here where so few feet ever have the opportunity to tread. She always feels a bit like an acolyte in some ancient mystery religion here. Perhaps it's the silence of the heavy weight of secrecy and power that seem to permeate the building.

She doesn't knock because it's both against the Club rules and utterly unnecessary. Mr. Holmes will know she's here, would have even if she hadn't texted him earlier. In this place he's rather like Odin, all seeing and all knowing. She tries to imagine him with a rakish eye-patch and a pair of ravens on the back of his armchair and can't help smiling.

His private rooms in the Club are accessible to only a handful of individuals. He retreats to them infrequently, but it's always a clear message to those who understand him. Where his brother needs movement, distraction, the noise of his violin or simply his own voice, Mycroft requires precisely the opposite. Sherlock is to stimulation as his brother is to tranquility.

She finds her employer stretched out on the sitting room sofa with a damp hand towel over his eyes and frowns. His migraines are infrequent but legendary. She hates to bother him in the grips of one, but Neilson has actually gone to the Prime Minister and they are on the cusp of a rather ugly political tantrum. She sighs, and he removes the towel to blink up at her.

"Neilson?" he asks, his voice lacking its usual aplomb. 

"I'm afraid so, sir." She takes the towel from him and goes into the washroom to run it under cool water, then wrings it out and returns it to him. "He's being most insistent and has, I'm afraid, done something a bit rash."

"Americans." The single word uttered with mild disdain seems to sum up the situation rather well.

"If you could offer him something, sir, we might be able to…"

He cuts her off abruptly but not unkindly. "That would be somewhat difficult, I'm afraid."

"Sir?"

He sits up and rubs the towel over his face as if it might ease the pain and bone-deep weariness she can read so plainly on him. Normally he tucks those sorts of things away like undergarments, neatly out of sight. She's not sure if he's too tired to care at present or actually trusts her enough to allow her to see his vulnerability. "I decoded the cipher weeks ago."

This is at once utterly unexpected and the only possible outcome that makes sense to her. Paradox has become as natural as breathing in the past few years. She's not really certain how to respond in this case, however, so she just stares at him in confusion.

He takes pity on her and smiles weakly. "If we act on the information in this cipher what will happen?"

She blinks. "Presumably plots will be foiled and many lives saved?" She answers in the form of a question because it seems far too obvious.

Grimacing, he says, "Yes, certainly that will be the case, but how then will the terrorists react?"

He's leading her by the hand through some deeper level and part of her almost wishes she could resist. But that's not possible; she needs to know, so she says, "They stop using the cipher?"

"Precisely." His eyes go distant and impossibly old for a moment. "It's Coventry all over again." At her bewildered expression, he shakes his head as if hideously dismayed by the state of the general education system in Britain. "A classic conundrum from World War II. The military intelligence group tasked with breaking German codes, Ultra, intercepted and decoded a message indicating an imminent bombing attack on Coventry. A decision had to be made, defend the city or allow the attack to take place and maintain the integrity of the code in the minds of German command. To sacrifice hundreds, possibly thousands of innocent lives in an effort to win the war and save millions more."

She sees it then, the entire moral quandary laid out neatly at her feet. Her first reaction startles her a bit. It's not horror or even anger, rather a profound sadness that Mr. Holmes has this thrust upon him. Another impossible situation he'll be expected to make right, whatever the cost to his soul might be. "What are you going to do, sir?"

"Well, my predecessors chose the needs of the many over the needs of the few and maintained the integrity of the code. Close to 1,500 people were either injured or killed outright. Obviously I'd much prefer to avoid that." His lips thin and he rubs his eyes and forehead again. "In this case, it would be a pair of jumbo jets, one originating in Germany and the other here in London. I'm afraid the plot has already been set in motion."

She folds her arms around herself and asks, "When?"

"Not for some time, fortunately. We have that, at least, on our side." He slumps back against the sofa and rests his aching head. "These events are complicated to plan and enact, particularly in light of our enhanced surveillance and security measures. I believe there may be a way to postpone it further via a number of missions on the part of the CIA and MI6 made to seem unrelated or simply 'lucky' coincidences. That will buy us the better part of a year. However," his voice goes soft and tired, "delaying tactics only postpone the inevitable. What we require is a larger strategy, one that allows us to avoid the sacrifice of innocent lives without alerting our enemies. Alas, I have yet to devise one."

"You will, sir." She has complete faith in that, more faith than she's ever been able to muster for either religions or relationships to date.

"Perhaps. But not, I fear, today. Would you be so kind as to inform the Prime Minister that I will contact Agent Neilson regarding his request tomorrow. Schedule a call for 9:00 am our time."

"But, sir, that will be four in the morning for…" she verbally stumbles to a halt then smiles. "Of course, sir."

"It really is a shame that we're forced to deal with Mr. Neilson; his impulse control issues trouble me. He'll be inclined to point a SEAL team at the problem before cooler heads have a chance to ponder the ramifications." Mycroft frowns in a tight, pinched way, as if the expression itself has intensified his headache abominably. "It pains me to say this but we may need to, what's the phrase, take a page from his rule book."

"Sir?"

"I may wish to have a chat with the current Deputy Director of the CIA before speaking to Agent Neilson. I wonder how well informed the former is regarding the latter's work. It may be an excellent time to bring him up to speed."

She pulls out her phone and looks up the number. Usually this is the sort of thing they allow MI6 to handle, but Neilson has pushed her employer just a bit too far on this occasion. She'd pay good money to be a fly on the wall when the agent is contacted by his superior.

She is about to say as much when her phone trembles in her hand. Of course she remembered to set it to vibrate before entering the Club. A ringing phone is grounds for immediate expulsion, after all. Sixto learned that the hard way.

It's a text message from John Watson. The brothers are currently communicating via intermediaries; it both simplifies and complicates matters to some degree. John is almost as fast and accurate on a tiny keyboard as she is, so few messages end up garbled beyond recognition. He also has the good sense to turn off the auto-correct functionality.

She looks up, eyes wide. There's no doubt this message is accurate and urgent. "Sir," she whispers, "it's your mother…"


	13. "My dear, where do you think I got the idea?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea discovers a somewhat daunting truth about her employer and Mycroft has an epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should add a brief warning here, I may lose a few of you with this chapter. I dithered a bit about going down this particular path but I've kind of been heading here ever since I heard Irene say Jim's nickname for Mycroft was "The Ice Man"...

She thinks she's worked out the umbrella after years of consideration. Not that she has a tremendous amount of free time to ponder the symbolism of her employer's fashion accessories, but there is the odd moment here and there for contemplation. There's time spent waiting for Mr. Holmes as he gently nudges the Prime Minister out of a particularly disastrous position, or as he quietly soothes the betrayed spouse of an important official with a well placed check. She's created for herself a little patchwork of moments between the unending cascade of urgent emails to be sorted, surveillance footage to be edited and tea to be served at precisely the right temperature and time.

She thinks the umbrella is a reminder that there is one aspect of this nation and its people he can neither predict nor control. Well, one of at least two that she can think of off-hand, but she doesn't think Sherlock would fit quite so neatly over his elbow. Sherlock wouldn't allow himself to be leaned upon casually nor twirled with delight. So the umbrella really is the better choice, she supposes.

Of course, it's just possible that he watched too many episodes of The Avengers as a boy and fancies himself Mr. Steed.

She also thinks that it's not terribly surprising that while Mycroft limits himself to a single accessory, Sherlock requires no less than three. Well, it had just been the two previously- the massive, black, just-this-side-of-a-cape coat that never seems to leave his lank frame, and the ever-present blue cashmere scarf. London may be an often damp and chilly city, but no one can convince her those two items are more than a glaring affectation approximately 90% of the time he wears them. His third accessory is far and away the most interesting, though- an adorable, pocket-sized doctor with near boundless patience and frighteningly good aim.

She finds herself just the tiniest bit jealous of that one.

Dr. Watson's eyes meet hers as they arrive at Mrs. Holmes' hospital room. He musters a polite smile for her and a sympathetic grimace for her employer. His message had, of necessity, been terse, but he's a doctor and she'd wager a week's pay he's already had a look at the woman's medical files. If his expression is any indication he didn't much like what he saw.

Oh dear.

Sherlock and his brother carry out one of their rare but mildly annoying conversations that seems to consist almost entirely of eye rolls, mild frowns and shoulder shrugs. She wonders if learning semaphore or sign language would help her decipher it. She doubts it.

Mycroft enters the hospital room with trepidation despite the fact that he won't actually be facing his mother, at least a conscious Mrs. Holmes. Sherlock follows close on his heels and shuts the door in John's face. The doctor stands there for a second and she watches his shoulders hunch then relax as he turns on his heel to face her. "Right, I'll just wait out here then."

She gives him a tentative smile and he returns it with considerably more enthusiasm than she feels strictly comfortable with. There are two seats across the corridor so she sits down on one; she's been in four-inch heels for the better part of eight hours and both her feet and calves could use the break. Her BlackBerry is in her hand before she's even conscious of having reached for it. She opens the Kindle app after noting no ultra-urgent email messages in her queue.

Dr. Watson settles down beside her, his hands on his thighs but his eyes never leaving the door. He's worried about Sherlock which means Mrs. Holmes' condition is dire. She can't help thinking it's wretched timing, all thing considered.

"So how long have you… you know, worked for Mycroft?"

Her lips twitch into a vague approximation of a smile as she tries to make it through an entire chapter of "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" in one sitting. It's something of a long-term goal and she's come close once or twice. Not that she's finding the book all that riveting. Indeed, she's already worked out that the supposed murder victim is, actually alive and who the killer is but it's still a reasonably good read. "Sorry," she mumbles absently, "that's classified."

She doesn't have to look at him to know the expression that's settled over his face, it's the one that resembles a wrinkled shammy someone's tossed casually on the floor. He frowns with his entire face, sometimes with his entire body. This time it goes no farther than his narrow, downturned lips. "Kidding," she amends with a cheeky grin.

"Oh."

She doesn't blame him for the confusion, he's been in Sherlock's orbit long enough to realize the world is a far more complicated and strange place than he'd previously believed possible. London isn't quite the battlefield he'd been trained for, but he's a soldier, he's adaptable. A few more years and she won't even be able to tease him properly.

"Seven years. Roughly."

He blinks at her in surprise, whether at the length of time she's managed to survive as Mycroft's subordinate or the fact that she honestly answered his question, she's not entirely certain. "Oh. That's… that's a long time."

"Mm-hmm," she agrees lightly.

"Does it ever…" He stops to consider his question, his forehead going all adorably wrinkled again and she really, really considers poaching him right out from under Sherlock's nose. He'd be an asset, she knows that, and he and Sixto would get on like a house on fire. Just imagining Sherlock's indignant, outraged squawk of protest makes her day a little brighter. "I mean, sometimes life just seems so, so mad around them." He gestures to the door with a distracted wave of his hand. "I used to have a normal life. I used to spend time with my mates, go the pub, watch a game from time to time. Now it's all breaking and entering or being kidnapped, or saving Sherlock from being kidnapped…"

"Or shooting people," she adds and gives him a significant look, then sets her mobile down in her lap. She's not going to finish that chapter tonight. "I rather enjoy the shooting people bit."

He's giving her that confused kitten look again that makes her desperately want to reach out and ruffle his hair fondly. "Uh-huh," is his decidedly uncertain response.

"John." She's decided to stop pretending she forgets who he is every time she sees him. It was rather juvenile really, fun, but juvenile. "I'm fairly certain neither of us is really cut out for 'normal'. We might not be quite as much of an outlier as they are…" she pauses to nod her head at the door and brushes her chestnut locks over her shoulder, then continues with, "but neither of us would still be here if we weren't just abnormal enough."

He chuckles and ducks his head. "I s'pose so." His eyes flicker up to meet hers. "So, you shoot people, do you?"

"Occasionally." If her smile is a bit flirtatious it can't really be helped. She's always found discussing gunplay to be decidedly romantic. "Though my aim's not nearly on par with yours." It's not an empty compliment; she's seen what he can do.

"Oh, well, thanks." His smile crinkles his eyes this time, at least it does until he realizes the implications of what she's just said. "Wait, how do you…"

The door opens and Mycroft exits glancing at his pocket watch. Sherlock is a silent, somber shadow at his back. "I'll handle all the details, of course."

Sherlock is staring at an anti-flu poster as if it held the secrets to the universe rather than the pedestrian reminder that hand washing is an effective method of stopping the spread of viruses. "She isn't dead yet." His voice is monotone.

"Rather a technicality, actually, unless I'm misunderstanding the nature of the damage done to her brain by the stroke." Mycroft addresses the comment to John with an arched eyebrow.

Dr. Watson squirms a bit uncomfortably as Sherlock turns his attention to him as well. "The damage was… extensive," he admits at last.

"There we are then." The elder Holmes tilts his head thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, you'd like to be included in planning the funeral, contacting the family solicitor, taking charge of the house, and so on."

Sherlock's eyes haven't left John. "If you could possibly hold off on interring her until after she's actually been declared dead, Mycroft, I'd very much appreciate it." John visibly winces and Anthea can't help feeling a bit sorry for him. It's his first major Holmes family drama after all, and he actually has to sleep under the same roof with one of them. Sherlock turns on his heel and begins stalking off with a terse, "I wouldn't dream of coming between you and your beloved 'details', brother mine."

John all but leaps up and begins trotting after him before pausing to say, "Good night" to her. He offers a heartfelt, "I'm terribly sorry for your loss" to her employer.

Mycroft produces something from an inner pocket and holds it out to him.

John gazes at the offering in utter confusion. "I'm… I don't, um…"

"Please be so kind as to offer this to my brother. It's his favorite variety, heavy tar."

"But…" Dr. Watson takes the cigarette with obvious reluctance. "He, uh, he doesn't smoke. I mean, not-not any more."

Mr. Holmes smiles patiently. "Simply be so kind as to offer it to him."

"And then what?"

"If he accepts, it will be what I rather euphemistically refer to as a 'Danger Night'. He might be inclined to resort to his former unfortunate… hobby. If he's left to his own devices let us simply say that you'd be due for another of Detective Inspector Lestrade's drugs busts in the not too distant future. And this time the Inspector would not leave empty handed."

"You know," John points out, crossing his arms over his chest, "you might have just told me you were worried about a relapse. See? I just did it right there with a single sentence."

Mycroft responds with a pained sigh that seems to deflate him a little. Dr. Watson rather belatedly remembers why they're all there and relents. "Yeah, ok, I'll keep an eye on him tonight."

She gives the good doctor a brilliant smile, and he actually winks in return before hurrying down the corridor as quickly as decorum will allow. Glancing at her BlackBerry she says, "Sir, I can move a few things around if you'd like to spend some time with your mother."

"Thank you, my dear, but that won't be necessary." His eyes flicker to the door and away again almost guiltily. "She isn't here; she's been effectively brain dead for hours."

"I'm sorry." She is, she really is, at least until she takes the time to study him closely. When she does she discovers something she doesn't expect, couldn't have possibly foreseen despite having known this man for the better part of a decade… She sees barely contained satisfaction. 

Realizing she's noticed it his lips twitch slightly and he leads her from the hospital and back to the car. She wonders if her own forehead is as furrowed as John's was earlier. If it isn't, it should be.

As their car slides smoothly away from the curb he says softly, "I have it."

"'It', sir?"

"The Coventry Conundrum." He leans back in the plush seat, his migraine apparently forgotten. "It's so simple… Well, the implementation will be somewhat complicated, but the answer itself is…" His words fade as he loses himself in the beauty of his plan.

"Sir?" she prompts gently.

He turns his head to gaze at her and smiles softly. Briefly he lays out the details for her and he's right, it is simple and marvelously complicated and quite possibly the most immoral thing she's ever heard in her life. His eyes are positively glinting as he draws to a close and waits for her reaction. Apparently her expression is everything he'd hoped for because the level of smug in the vehicle rises several very obvious degrees. "Well," he says at last, "you must admit it's rather elegant."

That, she thinks, is one word for allowing terrorists to blow up a jumbo jet filled with dead bodies, though not the first that springs to mind. "Sir, this is… we can't possibly…"

"The logistics will be challenging, of course," he disagrees mildly, "but hardly impossible."

She looks out the window for a moment to take several deep, calming breaths. He knows bloody well that wasn't what she meant. "Sir, what you're suggesting is… it's wrong."

She would say that he's pausing to collect his thoughts before answering, if she could bring herself to believe that they were ever disordered in the first place. "Miranda," he begins, and she's never been so startled by the sound of her own name in her entire life, "I realize that our Personnel Director would frown on this question, however, allow me to ask it regardless. Are you a practicing Christian?"

She blinks; it's an absurd question not an offensive one as far as she's concerned. This is particularly true as it's utterly unnecessary. He knows very well that she isn't and hasn't been for more than half her life. She just shakes her head solemnly.

"Do you subscribe to any other faith? No? Then allow one further question. Do you believe in an afterlife?"

That's trickier because a part of her wants to believe… but if she's honest, no, she doesn't. Dead is simply dead. She shakes her head again.

"In that case, may I ask upon what grounds you object to my proposal?"

She has to think about that one for a moment because her thoughts feel as sharp and jagged as a broken pint glass. "Sir, the… the bodies aren't just… things. They are, or were, people. People that were cared for, people who will be missed and mourned." An idea comes to her then, a way to make her case such that her employer can't fail to see her point. "Sir, what if someone suggested using your mother's body for this project?"

There's something in the way he's watching her that makes her muscles clench so tightly she's going to end up with a migraine to match her employer's. She knows before he says a word, doesn't actually want him to say the words that are hanging there between them. But he will, and he does. "My dear, where do you think I got the idea?"


	14. "Of course Anthea would be delighted to accept, won't you my dear?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea and Mycroft attend a funeral and Anthea receives an offer she can't refuse.

The funeral goes off without a hitch thanks, in great part, to Sherlock's absence. John and Mrs. Hudson attend and even Detective Inspector Lestrade makes an appearance. Mycroft apes mild grief buried beneath years of stiff-upper-lipped breeding and aristocratic decorum. She is the only one in attendance who appreciates his performance for what it is.

She has a front row seat, after all, and quietly directs the scenery and props to best suit his needs. Knowing the coffin is empty helps. Knowing Mrs. Holmes' body is currently tucked away in an ultra-secret storage facility on one of the lower levels of Baskerville, does not.

Mrs. Holmes will, apparently, be taking that long awaited trip to America she'd always hoped to. Of course the trip won't be completed as the plane is slated to explode somewhere over the mid-Atlantic, and she'll be a corpse at the time. Anthea doesn't think either Mrs. Holmes or Sherlock would find the whole thing quite as indecently amusing as her employer seems to.

The truth is that she's not sure what to make of Mycroft now. She still feels an intense sense of gratitude and loyalty to him, and she's reasonably certain he's at least mildly fond of her. But she has discovered a deeper truth that makes her feel nervous and uncomfortable around him in a way she wouldn't have previously thought possible.

When he completes the obligatory greetings and shakes each and every hand offered to him, he takes a seat beside her to survey the chapel with calm approval. "Everything's gone quite well," he says so softly that even in the relative quiet of the chapel she's the only one who can hear him.

She manages a smile that more closely resembles a nervous twitch than any real pleasure.

He sighs just a little and she sees, for just an instant, a profound loneliness in his expression. He looks like a man who's just lost his only friend. This is a bit puzzling because to the best of her knowledge he's never had one.

"Sir?"

His smile seems rather obviously forced, as if he simply hasn't the energy to even pretend he isn't pretending. "I cannot change what I am. I've tried, believe me, I spent a good portion of my youth and young adulthood attempting to feel… to care."

She feels herself wince. Yes, she might know a little something about spending her young adult years pretending to be something she wasn't. She might remember a few nights, well, a few dozen nights, praying her impulses and desires would line themselves up neatly under the banner reading "Normal". There might have been a prayer or two that she could be the daughter her mother desperately wanted as well.

He shrugs so slightly she almost thinks she's imagined it, and continues, "I can manage it under specific circumstances and for short periods of time at best. But I will admit that there are two people who, were they to be harmed, well, I doubt I would have to force myself to feel something rather profound. My mother was not on that rather exclusive list." 

He's looking at her and for the first time in days she sees something in his eyes that isn't for public consumption. Something honest and real and for her alone. Well, she has to share it with Sherlock she supposes, but that's not so bad. She's not an only child, after all, so she understands sibling rivalry. She feels her eyes tearing up, sniffles, and raises her BlackBerry as an excuse to look away. She can't see anything on the screen but it doesn't really matter.

"I… I think I understand, sir." Her voice is garbled a bit, like the words themselves are tear soaked. She'd feel embarrassed if she ever thought she had a hope of keeping any reaction a secret from him. She finds it best to simply get right to the truth; it saves ever so much time and that is a commodity they both value.

He's staring once more at the empty coffin, probably working out where the oak used to build it came from and that one of the employees at the exclusive funeral home has a touch of arthritis in his left knee from the way it was placed on the dais. "It would have been difficult to love her given my nature," he murmurs almost more to himself than her, "impossible once she realized what I was. Or perhaps more aptly, what I could never be." His lips draw into a thin, unhappy line. "Sherlock will miss her dreadfully. He'll pretend not to, of course, but he will."

She's already making a mental note to divide up the Sherlock-minding duties over the next few days with John. Fortunately neither of the boys has discovered the single wireless camera Mycroft ever so casually placed in the flat on his first visit. It will make her portion of the schedule so much simpler.

When the minister begins to speak Mr. Holmes turns his full attention to the man. His expression is diffident, more mild interest in appearing interested, but it will pass inspection with the majority in attendance. She attempts to mirror it but is startled by a text message alert. Glancing down she tries to read it as covertly as possible.

'I require John – SH'

Her employer leans over fractionally, his eyes never leaving the minister, and whispers, "Dr. Watson's turned off his phone."

Joy. She texts back because she knows what will happen if she doesn't. It will be the adult, technologically advanced version of a three-year-old repeating "Mom" over and over and over again. 'Funeral ongoing. Will tell him ASAP.' He can chew on that for a bit, she thinks.

Of course her phone vibrates immediately. 'I require him NOW- SH'

'Sorry to hear that. Turning off phone now. Bye.' And she does just that because really she's much too old to be passing notes in school. Sherlock will just have to pull John's pigtails himself, later, in whatever form that will eventually take. For the time being her job is to pretend to mourn an empty coffin and by god that's what she's going to do.

Mycroft doesn't seem even vaguely concerned so she doesn't think Sherlock is contemplating anything dire at the moment. He's probably just worked out that the milk's gone over or the bread has turned into a biological hazard and can't be arsed to go and fetch something to eat. Given that she once watched him survive three days on nothing more than jelly babies and amphetamines, she expects he'll survive another hour or two on his own.

She leaves her phone off for an entire half an hour while the service is ongoing. It feels decadent, like sleeping in until noon or eating chocolate cake for breakfast. It's the longest span of time it's been intentionally turned off since her employer first placed it in her hands. She's sat through films and nuclear disarmament talks with it on vibrate, so this is a first. She thinks the world and Sherlock Holmes can bloody well look after themselves for a bit.

When she does switch it back on she notes two scathing texts from Holmes the younger and an email from Agent Neilson. He and his superiors are over the moon about Mycroft's little plot and are enthusiastically pestering the Germans to join in. It occurs to her that a good deal of their enthusiasm no doubt stems from the fact that they aren't currently being asked to use any deceased Americans to help fill seats. There can be little to no political fallout for them should things unravel at any point between now and the Flight of the Living Dead. Sixto came up with that one over cocktails when he was recruited to help round up bodies for the cause. He'd needed a few stiff drinks and she'd been happy to supply them. As well as downing a few of her own.

She looks up when she feels Mycroft stand and move to thank the minister. His expression is one of placid melancholy, so perfect for the situation and present company she's tempted to snap a photo. It's too bad it's only as legitimate as the funeral itself.

People are either saying their good-byes to her employer or filing solemnly from the chapel when her eyes are drawn to the floral arrangements. They clutter the dais like a crowd of garish, overly perfumed housewives. Some are tasteful, like the calla lily arrangement provided by the Equerry. Others, like the white rose festooned monstrosity draped with a silken ribbon declaring, "In Sympathy" are not. She wanders over to it and fingers the card, noting it too shows a distinct lack of taste. It features a beach scene rendered in watercolors. The sun sets and seagulls float motionless above a calm sea. On it is written, 'So sorry for your loss. Were you close? Doubt it. –M"

She barely manages to contain a yelp as her employer plucks the card from her fingers. He eyes it with mild disinterest and comments, "When we were younger our mother kept a tabby cat named Toby. She was ridiculously attached to the creature and spoiled it rather thoroughly. At night it became profoundly distressed if it discovered a door closed to it, as ours generally was." He smiles and pockets the card. "We shared a room at the time, Sherlock and I. At any rate, each night I would close the door and at roughly one a.m. the cat would begin crying and scratching away as if desperate to enter. Often enough Sherlock would tire of it and allow the creature to climb into bed with him, and so the behavior continued. It had been reinforced, after all. I, however, felt there might be a better solution and took to locking the door at night and tucking the key under my pillow. The first few evenings were distressing for everyone involved, but soon enough the cat learned that the door would not open regardless of its protests and it simply gave up."

She raises an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting we just ignore Mr. M?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. We have several people who could be put to work on this young man, keeping an eye on his activities and interests, while we focus on somewhat more important objectives." Mr. Holmes leans on his umbrella primly and adds, "I expect he'll stop scratching at the door eventually and find himself a new playmate."

She shudders to think who that might be and just how they'll handle M's somewhat bizarre form of 'interest'.

Before she can say as much they are approached by a rather subdued Dr. Watson. He seems a bit uncertain and his fingers tap a nervous rhythm on his leg. "Lovely service," he manages with a weak smile.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. Please be so kind as to inform my brother of that when you see him." Mycroft's answering smile is tight and quick as a plucked guitar string.

"Yeah." John infuses that word with a veritable dictionary's worth of meaning. He's disappointed in Sherlock, annoyed, confused, frustrated and at the same time intensely protective and not entirely certain this isn't yet another game between the brothers. He's learning fast. "Look, a few of us were headed to a pub for a drink and I wanted to invite you. Both… I mean, of course you're both very welcome."

That was a rather obvious lie and John's forced smile makes it rather clear that Mycroft's attendance is anything but enthusiastically desired. She's about to remind her employer about a non-existent meeting when he comments, "I'm afraid I still have one or two tasks to complete prior to my mother's cremation and the reading of the will, you understand." His voice sounds almost regretful and she is duly impressed. "Of course Anthea would be delighted to accept, won't you my dear?"

For a moment she almost wonders if she isn't trapped in one of her recurring stress dreams. However, there's no classroom, nor is Mr. Holmes dressed as one of her college professors, and there's no exam for which she's wholly unprepared. At least she doesn't believe there's an exam, though she supposes he may just have handed her the verbal equivalent of one.

On the plus side she isn't naked… so there's that.

Belatedly she tears her eyes away from his bafflingly neutral expression and manages a choked, "Of course. Sounds fun."

Everyone smiles, but aside from the muscles in play the expressions share nothing in common. "Great," John chirps and leads her politely back to his little party consisting of a beaming Mrs. Hudson and a profoundly wary D.I. Lestrade. She glances back at her employer and realizes, certainly not for the first time, that his game playing is far more annoying when she's one of the pieces. It terrifies her that she's actually thinking Sherlock might have a point where his brother's concerned after all.


	15. "What?  Just Anthea?  Are you like Madonna or something?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea meets John's erstwhile elder sister...and rather likes what she sees.

She falls into step rather naturally with John. Their heights aren't so dissimilar, and she's wearing relatively comfortable shoes on this occasion. Her normal footwear seemed a bit ostentatious, even for a fictional funeral.

DI Lestrade keeps shooting her wary looks as if attempting to work out her real reason for joining them. She does her best to look inscrutable, but, given that she doesn't have a clue why she's been sent along, it's not as if she can inadvertently give anything away regardless.

John brushes up against her casually, a shoulder against hers as another group passes by, a hand on her arm to indicate a change in direction. She knows he's subtly doing his best to seduce her as he's done with countless other women. Well, seventeen that she's aware of in the greater London metropolitan area, at any rate. It's rather sweet and perhaps a little sad because she thinks he's probably a bit touch starved. There's almost always this invisible barrier of masculine norms and Sherlockian discomfort between him and his best friend. Perhaps John's simply learned to fulfill his own needs for touch whenever and wherever he can.

Unfortunately for him, she has no intention of fulfilling any of his other needs in the immediate future.

She smiles politely as he guides her into a seat in a cozy little pub called the Blue Carbuncle. It's too early for the usual crowd to have settled in so they have a table and the better part of an entire wing of the place to themselves. John fetches the first round with obvious delight, but seems a bit daunted when it comes to striking up a conversation.

Mrs. Hudson sips her white wine primly and relieves him of the duty by asking, "So did any of you actually know Mrs. Holmes?"

That is a rather loaded question to Anthea's mind.

"Never met her," Lestrade mumbles around a mouthful of semi-stale bite-sized pretzels.

"No, no neither did I." John shakes his head and rubs a finger over his eyebrow. "I barely knew Sherlock had a brother until…" She watches him ponder how best to describe their first encounter. He settles on, "Until that business with the cabby. Mycroft turned up as we were… uh, leaving."

Her lips quirk as she takes a sip of her cider. Did he skip over the kidnapping story in deference to her? If so it was both sweet and entirely unnecessary. 

"I've no idea about their father. I mean, aside from assuming they had one at some point."

She can address that question at least. "He's been dead for many years. Sherlock was eight at the time. Mycroft was fifteen."

"Oh what a tragedy," Emilia sighs, "it's no wonder those two boys are a bit… peculiar."

Anthea silently awards the older woman the 'Understatement of the Year' award. It's a testament to their good breeding that the remainder of the group doesn't burst into near hysterical laughter. Though Lestrade seems to be holding onto his self control by a hair. Anthea takes a long, slow sip of her drink and hopes the conversation will naturally float downstream from this topic. Sadly, John seems determined to row against the current. "Did you know her?"

"Mrs. Holmes?" Anthea considers her answer quite carefully. "I only saw her once, and just briefly. She seemed quite…formidable." And that's as much as she hopes she'll have to say about that.

"Were they very close?" Mrs. Hudson murmurs, quite clearly already making plans to fuss over her mourning lodger.

"As I understand it, Sherlock and she were quite close when he was young, though less so in the past few years." Her answer has the benefit of being both profoundly vague and entirely honest.

"Sherlock's a bit of a momma's boy, then?" Lestrade pops a few more pretzels into his mouth and continues on while chewing noisily. "I owe Sally a tenner."

"I shudder to think," John muttered, both hands clasping his pint a little more tightly than is absolutely necessary, "what else you lot bet on regarding Sherlock."

"Shame on you!" Mrs. Hudson agrees wholeheartedly.

Lestrade shrugs. If he's chagrined by their disappointment he's doing a wonderful job covering it up. "It's a bit of harmless fun that takes everyone's minds off of all the sh--" he gives Emilia a slightly guilty look before smoothly correcting himself, "the, uh, nonsense we have to put up with every day."

"Oh we've had our share of bets too," Anthea admits, coming to Lestrade's moral rescue. "I usually take the pot."

"Mycroft wagers on his brother… and loses?" John seems both astonished and pleased by the thought.

"Oh no, Mr. Holmes isn't allowed to bet," she corrects him, swiping a pretzel of her own. It tastes foul but she's half starved and skipped lunch. She'd order a sandwich or some chips, but she's made it a life rule never to order pub food without someone she trusts to vouch for it first. She doesn't have much to claim from her short-lived relationship with Patricia, but the bartender had opened her eyes to the inner workings of the average pub kitchen. "That'd be rather like… cheating."

The tension at the table drops considerably. John sips his ale and leans over the table, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "Okay I have to ask. One very late night when we were both utterly knackered after chasing an extortionist halfway to Leeds Sherlock actually admitted--" He pauses to look around as if afraid his flatmate might somehow magically appear in the midst of the rapidly filling pub, then continues, "That Mycroft is the smarter of the two of them. Do you reckon that's true?"

She hums thoughtfully, then grins. "Yes, yes it is."

"Blimey."

"So he can do the whole…" Lestrade waves his hand vaguely in a manner Anthea supposes represents Sherlock's 'deductive' techniques.

"Let's just say," she replies, fingering the rim of her glass playfully, "I have no secrets from my employer."

"Sounds like hell on earth to me," Lestrade grumbles.

Both she and John shrug and reply simultaneously, "You get used to it." They chuckle when they realize what they've done and what it means. They are, oddly enough, in very nearly the same boat when it comes to their respective Holmeses. Well, there are a few rather profound differences. After all she gets paid, and quite well thank you, to hand Mr. Holmes her privacy on a silver platter. John pays rent and utilities and half the shopping for the same privilege.

Apropos of nothing John suddenly stiffens and growls, "Oh bloody hell."

She follows his gaze and notes only a short woman with blonde hair sliding onto a bar stool with the ease of long familiarity. She's dressed in a comfortable looking cable-knit jumper and khaki pants. Her hair is styled in a rather utilitarian manner, short and neatly kept. She orders a pint and turns the whole of her attention to it, as if the amber liquid was sharing some profound bit of wisdom with her.

For a moment she wonders if this might be an ex of his. Perhaps they're in for some messy scene that will end in tears and John's nice black suit soaked in Newcastle Brown. She hopes not, she rather likes the suit.

"John," Mrs. Hudson says, while laying a hand on his arm, "isn't that your sister?"

Of course it must be, upon closer inspection they share the same somewhat stocky, altogether solid build and small, weathered hands. The woman's hair gleams not only gold but silver in the pub's pot lights, and her forehead wrinkles charmingly as she contemplates her drink. So, this is Harry, the black sheep, alcoholic lesbian divorcee of the Watson clan… Anthea can't help being just a bit intrigued.

John nods miserably and hides his face in his hands. "Jesus, of all the pubs…"

Apparently Harry's hearing is unnaturally acute because she turns and zeroes in on her brother instantly. Her expression is an odd mix; there's a hint of pleased recognition in the quirk of her thin lips but a wariness in her blue eyes that says the two rarely enjoy an easy relationship.

"I should…" John begins to stand but realizes Harry's already in motion towards them so slumps back down. He offers Anthea a weak, apologetic smile. "She's, uh, well just try not to hold her too much against me, will you?"

Anthea just smiles politely. If she can manage not to hold Sherlock against her employer, she doesn't expect this will be much of a challenge. It strikes her as a little sad that she doesn't know anyone with a simple, happy family life. She wonders vaguely if like is simply attracted to like in this case. Though in her own family, she's the black sheep lesbian. She and Harry may just need to form their own support group.

John's sister walks over to the table with the same self-assurance she's seen so often with John during a case. There's a physicality to the two of them that speaks of childhoods spent in sport and outdoor activities. They are both astonishingly comfortable in their own bodies and well aware of what they can expect of them. Harry eyes everyone at the table and affords them each a quick acknowledging nod before greeting her brother, "Good to see you, John. What are you doing way out here? You look like you just came from a funeral or something."

Her voice is surprisingly deep but soft, she could probably make herself heard over a night club's din if she were inclined. But she seems content to speak only as loudly as is strictly necessary. Anthea wonders if the siblings even raise their voices at one another. She's inclined to think not. They seem the type to clamp tight their angry words behind thinly pressed lips and the slow burn of long-held resentments.

"We did, actually," he replies, obviously uncomfortable. He shifts in his seat and clears his throat to clarify. "We just came from a funeral. Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock's mum."

Harry's eyes widen. "Oh. Sorry to hear that. Sherlock's your…" she pauses there as if flailing for the acceptable term, "mate, right? Odd fellow you moved in with."

"Yeah."

She nods thoughtfully. "He still at the funeral then? I'd like to finally meet him."

Anthea tries to imagine a scenario that doesn't end with Harry punching Sherlock square in the nose and draws an absolute blank.

John squirms and clears his throat again. "He, uh, he's working… on a, uh, case right now. Very important. Couldn't get away."

Mrs. Hudson seems to suddenly find her black nail lacquer fascinating and Lestrade's eyebrows rise but he doesn't contradict John. It's only a little lie, after all Sherlock really would skip his mother's funeral in pursuit of a criminal if he weren't already doing so because he was peeved at Mycroft. And he could be working on… something at the moment, though clearly not in conjunction with the Met.

"Uh-huh." Harry is already formulating a rather negative and probably wholly accurate picture of her brother's new BFF.

"He's very dedicated to his work," John amends a bit defensively.

"Must be," she agrees blandly.

"Won't you join us?" Anthea startles herself by asking. She realizes it's a Very Bad Idea as soon as the words leave her lips. John is eyeing escape routes and glancing at his watch, Lestrade has pulled out his phone to check texts and Mrs. Hudson is glancing between the siblings with vague unease.

Harry misses all the cues, or chooses to ignore them, and drags a chair over. "Thanks. Since my brother's forgotten his manners, I'm Harry."

"Greg," Lestrade grunts, offering her his hand for a firm shake.

"Emilia." Mrs. Hudson smile is a bit nervous, appearing, disappearing and reappearing several times before she's even finished shaking the woman's hand.

"So what's your name then?" Harry is gazing at her with earnest, clear-eyed intensity despite the fact that the pint in front of her is clearly not her first of the day.

Anthea pauses to contemplate her options, tapping her lips with one manicured finger thoughtfully. She could go with honesty and literally blow John's mind in a rather spectacular fashion which is… tempting. But she wonders if anyone at the table would believe she was actually just a plain, unassuming Miranda. She certainly doesn't feel either plain or unassuming, and hasn't for the better part of a decade. So there's really only one response she can make. "Um, Anthea."

Harry quirks an eyebrow and grins. "What? Just Anthea? Are you like Madonna or something?"

She's not going to flirt with John's sister right in front of him. She really isn't. No, sir. "Yes, just like Madonna."

"Well," Harry drawls, leaning close enough that Anthea can easily work out that she prefers a few pints to the harder stuff from scent alone. "You could certainly give her a run for her money when it comes to looks."

Not the smoothest pick-up line she's ever heard but the woman is a little the worse for wear when it comes to drink and clearly out of practice. 

John's burying his face in his hands and groaning, "God, Harry!"

She ignores him with the ease of long practice and asks, "So are you a friend of the family?"

"Sort of," Anthea evades casually, "I work for Mycroft, Sherlock's elder brother."

"Their parents weren't messing about when it came to naming the lads, eh?" Harry takes a long swig of her ale. "No Rogers or Barrys in the family I take it?"

"Not to my knowledge, but they are rather private… or were." She gives John a significant look.

He ducks his head, ears glowing red. "It's just a little blog. I've got about twenty readers on a good day."

"Always told John he should consider writing, he's damn good at it."

Harry's pride in her brother's skill is not misplaced. He really is very good. She much prefers reading his blog to the reports Sixto generates about their adventures. For one thing, Sixto's never learned the difference between "there" and "they're" and it drives her right round the bend.

"Yeah, well I'm not quite ready to give up on my medical career just yet."

"You mean between cases, right?" Harry's eyes wrinkle with delight. "My brother, the crime fighter!"

Their banter continues as Lestrade joins in to protest that the boys are hardly responsible for a profound dip in London's crime statistics on their own. Anthea tunes them out when she realizes she's being watched from a table near the front entrance. She tries very hard to remain relaxed and casual as she surreptitiously pulls her mobile from her jacket pocket and snaps a picture of the man.

He's small, almost deceptively so, with sharp little eyes that seem to rake over her. His hair is darker than Sherlock's and slicked back against his skull like some 1940's matinee idol. His suit is impeccable and falls in graceful lines about a compact, muscular body. He seems at once nonchalant and almost painfully focused. She thinks he might be as much a paradox as her employer, though there is an undercurrent of menace she senses from him that makes her think he less resembles Mr. Holmes than a dangerous reptile.

The snake imagery makes her shudder just a little. She's never much cared for them.

What catches her attention, however, isn't the suit or the hair or the dark eyes that seem intent on swallowing her whole… no, it's the small white rose in his lapel. It stands out in stark contrast to his black Armani jacket and almost seems to glow in the subdued lighting of the pub.

She glances down at her Blackberry long enough to attach the image to an email with the subject line _'Mr. M?'_ , then hits send. When she looks up, the unsettling man is gone. She's not certain why she's still trembling.

A response comes almost at once from Mr. Holmes. _'Yes I believe so. His lack of subtlety made him rather stand out at the funeral.'_

She would scream with frustration if she weren't currently sitting in the middle of a pub. _'You might have mentioned that to me, sir.'_

He switches to texting, preferring the immediacy. _'I would have done when we reviewed the video this evening, I assure you.'_

Of course he had cameras recording his own mother's "funeral" and of course he'd known Mr. M would attend. There's one more of course to add, that he hadn't bothered mentioning it to her. _'Is that why you sent me away?'_ She already knows the answer, one more 'of course' to add to the list.

_'Must admit I hadn't expected him to follow you. Terribly sorry for the oversight, my dear.'_

She thinks he's probably far more upset about being mistaken than he is for inadvertently putting her in danger. That's… strangely all right, though, and she realizes she and John really should consider a support group as well.

She picks up the thread of the conversation once more, which has moved on to a somewhat benign topic. Harry is apparently an antiquarian bookseller who dabbles in antiques and home restorations. Mrs. Hudson is doing her level best to convince John's sister to come over and take a look at some lithographs the late, unlamented Mr. Hudson collected.

"I'd be happy to." Harry's already finished her pint and is clearly contemplating another. "Give me a chance to see the place. All I know about the flat is what I read in John's blog."

There's an obvious accusation there that doesn't elude John. He grimaces but otherwise remains silent. Somehow Anthea doesn't think this is going to lead to a long-term thaw in relations between the two. 

"You absolutely must come by," Emilia asserts, patting Harry's arm affectionately. Apparently a shared interest in antiques is enough to win the older woman over.

"Do you ever drop by?" Harry eyes Anthea from across the table rather coyly.

"Occasionally," she replies, wondering if John's sister would entirely approve of the nearly weekly "abductions". John, for all his grumbling, actually tends to look a bit pleased when he finds her loitering artfully outside 221B or the clinic where he works. One of these days she's going to kidnap him on her own time for a delightful meal and possibly a film, just for a bit of fun.

John has finally remembered to turn his mobile back on and is scrolling through what she images is a rather colorful series of texts from Sherlock. His eyebrows are steadily climbing all the way up to his hairline as he scans the messages. "Oh, uh, I have to be going. Bit of a situation… at home."

In John-speak that roughly translates to either a visit by the fire brigade or a small HAZMAT team. Mrs. Hudson has a hand clasped to her mouth, and Lestrade looks like he's seriously considering calling for back up. She finishes her cider quickly, wondering if perhaps she should alert Sixto and the others that they're in for a busy evening. Whatever is happening apparently hasn't alarmed her employer to any great degree so she's inclined to go with small fire, no real structural damage.

In other words, a Tuesday.

"I'll, uh, I'll call you, Harry."

She looks decidedly skeptical and Anthea can't really blame her. Everyone is scrambling for their jackets and all but fleeing for the door. Anthea pauses and says, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Harry."

John's sister scans her face for some sign of mockery or deception and seems both relieved and confused to find none. She smiles tentatively at first, then slowly the expression warms to real pleasure. "Likewise. You, uh, ever get over to this side of town you should stop by my shop." 

Anthea eyes the card Harry hands her. It's small, tan and reads 'The Red-Headed Read' with the address, phone number and Harriet's name at the bottom. Harry shrugs and says, "My ex was a ginger. We thought it was cute."

"It is." Anthea's lips quirk, and apparently she is going to flirt with John Watson's sister after all, "Cute, I mean." Her eyes slide to the window and she notes John is pacing outside both anxious to get home and avert the latest Sherlock-astrophe and unwilling to abandon her. She tucks the card into her jacket pocket, not that she really needs it as she has a complete file on the woman in her desk drawer, but she rather likes the feel of it. She runs her thumb over the embossed lettering and shivers a little.


	16. "Ring me, yeah?  You've got my number.  I'd ask for yours but it's probably classified."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea very nearly gets asked out on a date and then receives a profoundly unexpected phone call.

The walk back to the chapel is delightfully uneventful. Lestrade parts company early, claiming his wife is expecting him. It seems unlikely as she's currently having a rather sordid little affair with a construction worker. Greg doesn't know yet, but it won't be long before he works it out. She's not exactly being subtle.

John offers to hail down a cab for himself and Mrs. Hudson. As he does so the older woman takes her aside. "He's a nice boy just not terribly good with women." Mrs. Hudson shakes her head and pats Anthea's hand gently. "But that sister of his is a right mess, you watch yourself, dear."

Apparently the fact that she's a lesbian is painfully obvious to everyone in Great Britain with the exception of one John Watson.

She waves good-bye to them both and wanders back to find her employer waiting at the entrance. He's watching the sky from beneath his umbrella and really only then does she realize how ominous it's become. She picks up her pace and manages to dive beneath its shelter just before the first drops begin to fall. He smiles placidly at her and asks, "Did you enjoy your drink?"

"Very much." The cider had been sub-par, the conversation rather uncomfortable and the food hideous, but she's quite delighted she went.

"Excellent." 

Their car purrs to a halt at the curb, and he assists her inside with a hand on her elbow then folds in behind her. "I believe we should set your little hacker team onto our elusive Mr. M. I should think your photo will make the task a good deal easier wouldn't you say?"

"I'd say if they can't identify him with a photo I'll need to reconsider our hiring policies, sir."

"Well then, it would seem we have a flight to fill."  


\--

Mr. Holmes is now jacketless, nursing a glass of scotch and apparently deeply engrossed in an Australian soap opera playing on his iPad. She kicks off her shoes and runs over to perch on the edge of the desk. "Has Curt found out about the baby then?"

"No, but Curt strikes me as the sort who might well struggle with the complexities of Velcro fasteners. So it's not terribly surprising."

"Mmm, but he's dishy."

"Obviously. Though I still contend Eva could do much better." He pauses the video, takes a slow sip of his scotch and then adds, "Of course I could say the same for you."

"Patricia wasn't nearly so dishy." She hopes it comes out sounding blithe and carefree rather than bitter and catty. She's totally over Patricia, after all, and the fact that she's spending a Friday evening obsessing over the fictional love lives of Aussie sheep ranchers with her employer means nothing. Nothing at all. Really.

"Perhaps not." He glances up at her, sighs a little and pats her gently on the hand. "It's the weekend, my dear, go out and enjoy yourself."

"I am enjoying myself," she pouts.

His lips thin and he gazes up at her under his dark ginger eyebrows. His expression is mildly reproving. And though she's seen him maintain that open disapproval with his brother for hours at a go, he's never really able to hold onto it for more than a few seconds with her. She takes an almost ridiculous amount of pride in that; daddy's little girl indeed.

"What about you, sir?" It's deflection, and rather obvious at that but she quietly hopes he'll play along.

"Me?" His expression slides effortlessly into wide-eyed innocence. "I'm afraid I have a rather full evening ahead of me. The Syrian situation needs watching, and I believe tonight may be a Danger Night. I didn't like the way Sherlock was eyeing the artificial sweetener this afternoon."

She sighs a little wearily and it's her turn to look reproving.

"At any rate, Wikipedia assures me tonight's episode will offer some long awaited resolution regarding the Ripley Ranch love triangle." He waves the iPad with a playful smile, takes a sip of his scotch and restarts the episode. "You'd best ring her up, she won't wait about forever you know."

Anthea bats her eyes coquettishly. "Why whatever do you mean, sir?"

"'The Red-Headed Read'? Honestly." Harry's card appears between his long fingers like a magic trick.

"I believe I know what I want for Christmas this year, sir." She snatches the card back and purses her lips. "A secret, of my very own."

"Are you certain you wouldn't prefer that lovely little BMW M3 you've been ogling on Google Images for the past six weeks?"

That will require some consideration. "Let me get back to you on that."

\--

She decides it might be nice to pick up an actual coffee table book or two as her flat still has an empty, unlived-in look and feel to it. That may have something to do with the fact that she treats it like a slightly more private hotel room. She sleeps there, occasionally eats there, and keeps her truly obscene shoe collection there, but it's difficult to actually claim she lives in the place.

Perhaps a few books and a nice print would help. Her knowledge of art is roughly equivalent to her understanding of particle physics but she imagines something will appeal to her eventually. The actual art isn't all that important really, it's the intention that matters. She wants a home for the first time in a very long while, possibly ever… which, she thinks a little morosely, is probably a very good indication that she's getting older.

But that's not a mental path she intends to follow tonight. Yes, she's single and twenty-seven with no marriage prospects even on the vague horizon, and okay perhaps her longest relationship in the past decade ended rather spectacularly in just under six months, but she does have a fantastic career and Her Majesty actually patted her on the cheek once while referring to her as a "very sweet young lady". How many people can lay claim to as much?

She enters The Red-Headed Read to the sound of a little brass bell chiming from atop the door. The shop is small and claustrophobic in the way that many antiquities dealers seem to prefer, or perhaps it's for the comfort of their customers, she's never really been clear on that. Huge bookcases loom everywhere creating a seemingly haphazard maze of the space. 

Anthea notes security cameras and mirrors placed strategically throughout, just where she'd put them for maximum coverage. Harry and the other employees can see virtually anywhere in the shop from the counter or even within the maze of cases. She's impressed, though she wonders if this vigilance is down to repeated thefts in the shop or a natural paranoia in the woman. It may be wrong, but she rather hopes it's more the latter than the former. She's learned to value paranoia in the past few years.

She lets herself wander for a bit, her eyes occasionally straying to one mirror or another to note Harry engaged in an animated phone conversation. 'A friend?' she wonders then discounts the thought, the woman's expression is troubled and weary. A friend in a spot of bother is unlikely to turn to a known alcoholic in their time of need. So… family? Maybe. Harry's relationship with her parents has been rocky since her split with Clara and there's a certain cant to her eyebrows and shoulders that fairly screams guilt. It could be John, she supposes, but at their last encounter she was the one using guilt against him rather than the other way round.

Could it be Clara then? That's a definite possibility and not the most auspicious omen. She's about to amble a bit closer to the counter to shamelessly eavesdrop on the conversation when she sees it. "The Florist's Delight" is on an eye-level shelf. It's a thick, solid tome with gilt lettering and a small ivy leaf design running the length of the spine. Carefully she pulls it down and fingers the plain, well worn cover, relishing the feel of the smooth leather binding. She teases it open and pauses to gaze in wonder at the glorious plate depicting Chamaemelum nobile in all its glory. Each daisy-like little flower reaches up toward a non-existent sun, their bright yellow centers and delicate white petals lovingly depicted. She can almost smell the fresh-cut apple scent she knows so well. Mr. Holmes is quite fond of the little herb.

There are nearly thirty more similar plates and hundreds more sketches of the native plants of the British Isles. It's an exquisite book that belongs on her employer's bookcase rather than her own. She doesn't bother glancing at the price; she has to have it.

"That's a fourth edition," the voice at her shoulder startles Anthea so badly she nearly drops the book. "I actually have a second if you're really keen on it."

Harry is watching her avidly, certainly not with the same… intensity that she's become accustomed to since she began working for Mr. Holmes, but it's only slightly less invasive. It's far more predatory as well, though not in a particularly intimidating way. Harry is clearly interested in more than just a sale and Anthea finds that she doesn't mind that one bit.

Anthea smiles a little tentatively in reply, which isn't really like her. Mr. Holmes had given his somewhat unorthodox blessing so why is she hesitating? Why doesn't she just back Harry into one of the corners and snog her silly? Why doesn't she feel like pressing the start button on another fun but ultimately unsatisfying fling?

She takes a deep breath and discovers that on some level she's less concerned about loading a jumbo jet full of corpses and watching it blown to bits than she is about launching herself into another relationship. This is… troubling. Mr. Holmes has ruined her utterly for anything approaching normalcy, there's no argument about that.

Drawing her shoulders back, Anthea smiles more calmly and asks, "So will I need to take out a mortgage to afford the second edition?"

Harry laughs and her eyes crinkle adorably. "Well, I hear the proprietor's a soft touch when it comes to beautiful women. I expect you could talk her down a bit."

Sliding the book back into its resting place Anthea says, "Lead on."

Harry shows her to a small, private office behind the counter that is, in a word, chaos. How anyone could find anything in the stacks of miscellaneous books and ephemera is a complete mystery. Every inch of wall space is equally busy. Art prints bump elbows with new wave concert posters and newspaper clippings. It's a cacophony, a visual auto accident in a ten by ten room. The term 'horror vacui' swims up from some late night BBC history program and she thinks she's never seen a better example of it.

Harry navigates the space with the ease of a long-term hoarder. Apparently there is a system though Anthea is buggered if she can work it out. After a few seconds of shuffling items from one teetering pile to another in a blatant disregard for the laws of physics, she produces the book and hands it to Anthea.

It's exquisite, and she fingers the binding delicately. Mr. Holmes may well squeak with pleasure when he unwraps it, and that alone makes it worth any price Harry cares to ask for it. She almost wishes Christmas wasn't seven months away.

"So are you a gardener or a collector?"

It's a fair question. "Neither I'm afraid; however, my employer is both and I think this would be perfect for him."

Harry's sandy eyebrow rises. "That's… quite a gift for an 'employer'."

Anthea giggles. "He's quite an employer."

Harry's giving her that befuddled look that so often seems to settle over John's features. "Uh-huh."

"I suppose in my own way I'm as attached to my Holmes as your brother is to his." She shrugs a little; this isn't exactly easy to explain to anyone who hasn't experienced what she's come to refer to as the "Holmes Effect". "He's rather more like a mentor to me, I suppose, even a father figure in some ways." And god she can't believe she actually admitted that to the woman before they've even gone out on their first date.

Luckily it seems to defuse the burgeoning suspicion lurking in Harry's eyes. Apparently she suspects that her brother might be at least considering broadening his sexual horizons with Sherlock. Anthea almost tells her she's not alone in that suspicion, but she's already let slip one major personal revelation in the conversation, best not to make it two. She needs to learn how to pace herself, she really does.

"Dare I ask how much of next month's rent this will cost me?"

The other woman just gazes at her for a long moment before saying, "Well, a fair dealer's price on this particular volume is around eight hundred pounds."

Anthea almost sags with relief. She has more expensive shoes tucked into the back reaches of her closet. "Oh. " She hands the book back to Harry and replies, "I'll take it."

"You don't want to try haggling the price down a bit?"

"I know absolutely nothing about the value of this book, you clearly do, and I trust you not to cheat an acquaintance of your brother." 

Harry shrugs. "Can't argue with that. Come on, then, I'll ring you up."

She gets another raised eyebrow when she hands over her credit card, a sleek little black one with no digits or name imprinted on it. It simply reads Bank of England. There may be a limit on it but so far she has yet to reach it.

"I'm beginning to think my brother isn't entirely exaggerating about you lot," Harry quips as the card goes through without a hitch. "Black cars, black credit cards-- sure your employer's name isn't Bond rather than Holmes?"

"Quite." She leans on the counter a little, just enough to frame her cleavage to its best advantage. "Does all this intimidate you?"

Pausing, Harry seems to consider the question very seriously for a minute or two. "No. It should, I mean if I were in my right mind I'm sure it would, but… no it really doesn't." She sighs and runs a hand through her short-cropped hair, then leans on her side of the counter. Their faces are so close they can feel each other's breath as warm little puffs against their lips. "Look, I haven't exactly been subtle about the fact that I rather fancy you, and if I'm not misreading this tragically it seems you fancy me too."

Anthea nods encouragingly, she wonders where this is going and if she'll be sleeping in her own bed this evening. It's something of a rush, like lining up the perfect shot. She almost holds her breath so she won't foul her aim.

"But there's… well, I was married for two years. We, uh split up not too long ago. It's… it's over but, well things are still a bit… complicated." She sighs and gazes down at their fingers now just inches apart. "There's the house and the business and… Clara isn't handling this very well. To be honest neither am I."

"I see." 

"Don't get me wrong, this isn't a brush off. God, no!" Harry's gold-flecked blue eyes are on hers again. "Seriously, I would love nothing more than take you home for a thorough ravishing…"

"But," Anthea prompts helpfully.

"But tonight isn't good. Clara's coming by to pick up some of her art and I, well to be perfectly honest, I'm probably going to crawl into a bottle of scotch as soon as she's gone."

"Ah." Well it's not as if any of this comes as any real surprise. Still, there's that awful gnawing sensation in the bottom of her stomach. Disappointment has been an absentee acquaintance of hers since Patricia left; she doesn't welcome it back with open arms. 

"Rain check?"

Anthea's smile is warm, her voice steady, neither betrays the slightest inner turmoil. "Of course, another time."

"Ring me, yeah? You've got my number. I'd ask for yours but it's probably classified."

They both laugh at that and Anthea reaches for her book, clutching it tightly to her chest. She starts to walk away then turns and says, "I'll call you." And she will. In fact, she's not sure she'll last the night without tucking her phone away out of sight until she goes to bed. Her own bed. Her own entirely too large, far too empty bed.

As she steps outside her BlackBerry buzzes in her handbag, and she reaches for it automatically. She's a bit startled to note that the caller's name is blocked. That's never happened to her before. The number of people with access to this number is rather small and she's well acquainted with all of them. 

Before her mind can start spinning out a million different scenarios involving grievous injury to Mr. Holmes or frantic calls from Dr. Watson she answers. "Hello?"

"Hello, Miranda."

Two words are all it takes to steal her breath away like a blow to the solar plexus. She nearly drops the obscenely expensive antique book in her hand. 'Breathe,' her mind screams frantically, 'breathe.' She drags in a breath almost painfully and leans against the brick wall behind her until the world ceases bobbing and spinning around her alarmingly. "Hello, Irene," she manages after a few seconds wishing she didn't sound quite as wrecked as she feels.


	17. 'You surpass her now.  Don't forget that.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea has her long-awaited reunion with The Woman.

Irene's house… well, mansion probably, is as tasteful inside as out. It is prim and neat and tidy, a place where dust isn't allowed to settle and each piece of art hangs just as it should. Kate greets her at the door with a knowing smirk and guides her to a sitting room. Anthea takes the time to consider her surroundings. She wishes she had her employer's knack; she'd love to be able to read the events of the past seven plus years just by the way the throw pillows are tucked against the loveseat cushions. The pillows, however, remain stubbornly silent and she remembers that observational skills can't be absorbed like a form of intellectual osmosis.

She notes one chair that sits at the end of the room, a little apart from the rest of the seating. It's backlit like a queen's throne. It's Her chair, obviously, she can almost see The Woman draped over it with a haughty little smile quirking her blood red lips. Anthea sits in it without a second thought.

The furniture is antique, dark wood contrasted with lush red velvet. She finds it a little painfully obvious, even Freud would raise a dubious eyebrow she suspects. The ceilings are high and the curtains open, spilling in copious light. The juxtaposition of light room and dark furnishings gives the place an oddly unbalanced feel; somewhere between a grandmother's home and a strict schoolmistress' office. This is where the fantasy starts then.

Kate blinks at her from the doorway, hair swept up into a neat French twist and her two-piece suit all straight lines and smooth angles. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

An explanation is her first thought, her second would probably be a gun. She's not certain just what she's walked into here. Business? Pleasure? And in either case, whose? Is Irene playing her own game or dancing to Mr. M's tune? Perhaps both, probably both. "No thank you."

Kate smirks again; she seems to possess an inexhaustible supply of the expressions. "Ms. Adler will be right down."

This, at least, is well known territory. Irene has always kept her waiting whether it was for dinner or an orgasm. This is a familiar move in a game she knows all too well, and it would have left Miranda fidgeting and wet. Anthea is simply bored and a bit annoyed. There are so many more important things she could be doing. She feels as if she's waiting for a dental appointment, mild dread laced with the profound desire to see it done. 

She pulls out her BlackBerry to find a text from her employer. _'How goes the reunion?'_

_'Slowly. She has yet to make an appearance.'_

_'Oh she does like the classics.'_

How Mr. Holmes is aware of what constitutes "the classics" in the S&M world is a question best left for another day. One that also includes a scandalous amount of alcohol. _'She is a creature of habit,'_ Anthea agrees.

_'That should make this much simpler.'_

She wishes that were true. She really does.

Irene's entrance is dramatic. She wears a scarlet dress, skin-tight, and there is very obviously nothing beneath it. Her lips and nails match the frock to perfection and her dark hair is styled in the pseudo-Victorian bun she always favored. Everything about her screams dominatrix, from the casual cruelty of her thin, crimson lips to the sharp little stilettos she balances so comfortably on.

Miranda still feels a tug of desire, a very real need to drop to her knees and worship such terrible perfection. Anthea wonders vaguely how much her lovely little pumps cost, how long it took Kate to work her hair and make-up magic, and whether or not her driver will need to kick their pretty door down to come to her aid by the end of this conversation. The smile on Irene's face says she's noted Miranda's response but not Anthea's. Interesting.

"Hello, pet, it's been far too long."

"Irene," she replies with a polite tilt of the head. She doesn't stand, nor, thankfully, kneel. Instead she re-crosses her legs and makes certain her own Louboutins are clearly visible.

The Woman slinks over to the loveseat and pours herself into it. "How have you been?"

"Well, thanks." Anthea sends a quick text. _'It starts.'_

"Marvelous. Do you like the house? Quite a step up from our little student flat, wouldn't you say?"

"It's lovely." She really wishes Mycroft had come instead; he'd love this pointless verbal fending. It's just making her feel wired and uncomfortable. Her BlackBerry buzzes. _'You surpass her now. Don't forget that.'_ Her nerves settle almost automatically at his words. She's not certain exactly what he means but feels ridiculously encouraged regardless.

"I see you've come up in the world as well." Irene's never liked being ignored and her words have more of an edge to them now. "How does it feel to be part of the grand, faceless bureaucracy? Is it terribly fulfilling, would you say?"

Anthea cocks an eyebrow. Irene is trying to hit a nerve but she's well off the mark. Does The Woman believe she's some low-level peon relegated to dull, though well-paying paper pushing? "I quite enjoy my work."

Her calm, disinterested responses are getting under Irene's skin to at least some degree. It's rather empowering to see that ferocious little gleam in the dominatrix's eyes, the one that speaks of riding crops and tight leather cuffs. The time when Miranda would have happily crawled over to kiss her shiny black pumps has long since passed and Anthea is reaching the end of her patience. "Irene, we both realize this isn't a social call. Perhaps you could simply give me the details regarding the current sexual scandal you've instigated and what it will cost the government to keep it quiet?"

Irene's head tilts just a fraction but it's enough to clearly show Anthea how far she is off script. This was supposed to be a straightforward seductive power-play and now she's gone and ruined everything by knocking over the scenery and pointing out the backdrop. Sadly, Irene doesn't know she's cast Anthea rather than Miranda as her co-star.

"You have changed, pet. Such patriotic fervor… I find it quite thrilling. Tell me, when would you say you developed it?"

Anthea knows precisely when that happened, it was when she realized the government had blue-gray eyes that could see right down to her bones, a penchant for dry humor and expensive scotch. It was when he stood silent watch beside her as her father was lowered into the ground, and each time he held his umbrella just so to protect them both from an errant downpour. She will tell Irene none of this, because it's none of her business and because if she did The Woman would have a toehold on her psyche. Irene owned Miranda mind, body and soul, but Anthea rose from her remains like a phoenix and is as clean, strong and smooth as onyx.

She glances down at her phone once more and reads Mr. Holmes' message. Yes, she does surpass this sordid little dominatrix and her pathetic sexual scandals. Why didn't she see it before? "I really don't wish to be rude, but I have a very tight schedule today. I'm sure you understand."

Irene openly frowns; Anthea isn't playing by the rules of the game at all. The Woman is disconcerted to be so outmaneuvered, to find that the upper hand she'd based so many assumptions on was just a fantasy. "How sad, I'd hoped we might have time to chat and catch up." She's not lying or exaggerating, rather Anthea seems to have lit a spark in The Woman that Miranda's meek submission damped long ago.

There was a time when that would have changed the very universe itself. Now, Anthea thinks, it's just one more impediment to the efficient completion of her task, and in the grand scheme of things a rather minor one at that.

"Well I'd certainly hate to keep you." Irene stands and crosses to the mantel where she retrieves a plain manila folder, then hands it to Anthea. "I do hope these make your trip a bit more worthwhile. The camera work isn't all it could be, but I believe the subject matter more than makes up for any technical deficiencies."

The subject of the photos in the folder is both instantly recognizable and not the least bit camera shy. Oh this isn't just any sex scandal-- Irene has truly outdone herself. Anthea's never actually seen anyone become apoplectic before, but she gets the feeling she may just get the chance when these photos are placed in the Equerry's well-manicured hands.

Bugger.

She closes the folder on her lap and meets Irene's darkly amused gaze. "How much?"

The Woman blinks long, false lashes almost demurely. "I didn't say they were for sale. But if I were to auction them off to the highest bidder, do you suppose your employer could afford them?"

This game is even more complicated than Anthea had originally feared. Mr. Holmes will be torn between appalled and elated, particularly when he notes which royal it is chained to Irene's wrought iron headboard. There was a time when she'd have thought this a bridge too far even for him to find enjoyable on some level… but that was before the Flight of the Living Dead.

"If you don't intend to sell them then why show them to me?"

Irene shrugs almost casually and turns to regard herself in the mirror over the fire. "You know how I like to misbehave from time to time. Let's just say these pretty little prints are my insurance against future actions the government--" Irene emphasizes that last word in such a way that Anthea's eyes narrow "might choose to take against me."

"So I'm to tell my employer that you have these photos and will be prepared to use them if you should feel threatened by… the government in any way."

"That's the long and short of it, yes."

Anthea stands and straightens her skirt automatically. She'll take the photos…copies of the photos along for Mr. Holmes and the Equerry to consider. She is, thankfully in this case, just the messenger. She doesn't envy either of them the decision they'll need to make regarding Irene and her threat. "Is there anything else?"

Irene turns to face her. The Woman's eyes are half-lidded and sultry as she moves closer. She smells of Chanel and deceit. "I should like to count you among my friends again. We were very… close once."

"Once," Anthea agrees icily.

"Do you still have that boar-bristle brush, I wonder…"

Briefly Anthea forgets she's no longer Miranda and flinches visibly. Irene positively beams with delight. "If you wanted to return here with it tonight we could," Irene leans in closer to breathe into her ear "...become reacquainted." 

Miranda feels a jolt that surges straight down to her groin like an electric shock. Her knees go a bit weak and for a moment, just a moment, she considers the offer. She cannot claim that the reason she draws away from The Woman is coldly rational or even profoundly justified righteous anger. No, the reason she steps back, calms her breathing and stills the traitorous tremors running down her frame is that she realizes a simple but profound truth… Irene is as much a pawn in this game as she herself is. This may not end well for Anthea and her employer, there may be a scandal not even the great Mycroft Holmes can think his way out of, but it will most assuredly not end well for Irene regardless of the outcome.

The truly tragic part is that Irene still thinks she's the queen, but when the final move is made she'll be long gone from the chessboard.


	18. "I prefer to think of it as facilitating Sherlock's eventual knighthood,"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea finally gets to shoot someone in the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one, between a friend's wedding and a surgery it's been a busy week.

In retrospect she probably shouldn't have taken the headshot on Mr. M's sniper… but the man had John Watson in his sites and John thinks she's pretty. She in turn thinks John's sister is rather pretty so the outcome was probably a foregone conclusion. Still, Mr. Holmes is not at all pleased as they inspect the poolside crime scene.

He hasn't said a word, hasn't berated her or in any verbal manner expressed his displeasure. Rather he's walked about the scene with a mildly sour expression on his face, his thin lips pursed ever so slightly and his brow furrowed. He seems to be looking at everything and nothing, but he is quite obviously not looking at her. 

She tries not to wilt too visibly.

Finally he pauses in his inspection, blinks, and seems to return from whatever strange land he inhabits deep within the recesses of his unique mind. His expression is no longer pensive; rather he seems almost mildly amused. He smiles at the bomb squad as they finish their work with the vest that had so recently been strapped to Dr. Watson's chest. "Well," he says at last, "it's certainly been an exciting evening for everyone it would seem."

'Exciting' is a better choice than 'Disastrous' at least as far as Anthea is concerned. She pretends to be enthralled by her BlackBerry to cover her relief. "I'm afraid the remainder of the suspects have escaped, including Mr. M."

"Moriarty," he corrects her almost casually, "James Moriarty to be precise." He notes her startled expression and adds, "You needn't re-examine our IT hiring policies; your team was quite up to the task. Of course, my brother might have mentioned that he'd acquired a new psychopathic best friend. That would have saved us all a bit of time and effort, but I suppose Sherlock's never been a great believer in saving me either of those rather valuable commodities." He sighs a little exaggeratedly and shrugs as if playing games with lunatic murderers were simply some unfortunate new habit his brother had picked up. "And only one innocent life lost…"

Well, one life and some rather important military plans, but why quibble about trivialities?

"We also recovered a flash drive from the bottom of the pool. I'm afraid it was…"

"Useless, yes." He flips his umbrella up and rests it casually on his shoulder. "C'est la vie, mmm?"

And this, she thinks, should probably be setting off a car alarm-style warning in her mind, because her employer is many things in the face of thermo-nuclear level political scandals, but indifferent generally isn't one of them. Her favorite MI6 contact had been reduced to sobbing over his mobile to her in the men's room when he'd heard the news. She'd talked him down with the promise of a night out that would include, but not be limited to, strippers, copious amounts of ridiculously expensive alcohol and possibly some further sobbing on her shoulder. Certainly she can't imagine Mr. Holmes bursting into tears. She literally can't even picture such a thing in her mind's eye, but she can't quite fathom why he's so nonplussed either.

"Sir?"

He slides his fingers into an inner coat pocket and produces a flash drive identical to the one her men fished out of the pool just an hour earlier. "Sherlock is many things, but foolish enough to turn over state's secrets to a known psychopath? Mind you, it has nothing whatsoever to do with patriotism or any lives that might be endangered by the plans falling into the wrong hands. He simply couldn't allow himself to be out-maneuvered by his nemesis… and it wouldn't have allowed him the opportunity to gloat when he _eventually_ returned them to me. Happily he was so distracted by the good doctor's near death experience that I was able to… procure it from him while he was badgering the medical staff at the hospital."

"You lifted it, sir?" She can't help it-- she's both delighted and deeply amused to learn just how talented a pickpocket her employer truly is.

"I prefer to think of it as facilitating Sherlock's eventual knighthood," he replies primly and tucks the flash drive safely away.

She's reasonably certain that should Sherlock ever find himself kneeling before Her Majesty it will be one of the signs that the End Times have arrived.

"I do wonder, though..." Her employer stares off into the middle distance for a few seconds before continuing, "...who convinced our mutual 'friend' not to do away with Dr. Watson and my rather reckless brother. The better question, of course, is why." He smiles charmingly at her while tapping his umbrella on his shoulder. "Do you suppose he's acquired a secret admirer?"

If she believed in a higher power, well a power higher than that of Mr. Holmes, she would earnestly pray that were not the case. She'd light candles, fondle rosaries, offer up earnest hosannas, whatever said deity required. But there is only Mycroft and his omniscience upon which she can place her faith. "I'll look into that, sir."

"It was rhetorical, my dear, purely rhetorical. But I do think it might be time for you to renew your acquaintance with our Ms. Adler."

If he'd insinuated that she should catch the first flight to Loch Ness in order to procure Nessie for some future mission, she would have been slightly less baffled than she currently is. "Sir?"

"Well, if she has developed an 'interest' in my brother I feel it my duty to ascertain her intentions." He takes pity on her after a moment and adds, "I'd like you to observe and identify everyone going into or out of her home."

"Everyone?" That could be one hell of a list. Indeed the phrase 'friends of Irene' has become a rather useful euphemism around their office.

"I need to know what she offered Mr. Moriarty that so profoundly distracted him. I rather doubt it was risqué photos of a royal. Or perhaps I should say that I rather doubt we could be quite so fortunate." He pauses and sighs, saying, "It would be lovely if someday that were our primary concern, would it not?"

She certainly can't argue the latter point so she doesn't even try. "Yes, yes, it would." She'd ask him how he came to his conclusion about Irene, she really would, but part of her isn't certain she wants to know the answer. Because if she stopped to think about it she'd posit that he'd ordered some level of surveillance on The Woman that he failed to notify his personal assistant about. The only reason he would have for doing such a thing without her express knowledge would be if he thought she might perhaps be compromised. That her loyalties might be… questionable. This is not a possibility that appeals to her.

\--

As it happens, the list of people who pay Irene regular visits is extensive and potentially profoundly embarrassing to at least three major governments. She creates a spreadsheet that tracks each one, their connections and the possible information they might be privy to that would interest either Irene or Moriarty. It's slow going, appallingly so.

She's playing with Excel, sorting the different rows and columns looking idly for patterns and getting precisely nowhere when one of her Tech Squad approaches the desk as if it were some sort of pagan altar and she a dark, unforgiving goddess. The young hacker is both extremely talented and utterly adorable in a geeky, hasn't seen the sun in roughly a decade sort of way. His name is George, he's just turned twenty-three and he has the saddest excuse for a moustache she's ever seen in her life.

"Ma'am, there's, uh, there's something I think you should see."

She smiles encouragingly and gestures him over. Is that the expression she used to wear whenever she crawled into Irene's presence? Were her eyes so wide? Was she so breathless? Did she stammer and fidget? She can see why Irene might have grown tired of such painfully obvious adoration; there was no challenge in it, no fun.

George just hands her a flash drive and motions toward her computer as if she needed some sort of instructions regarding what to do with such a device. In his defense, he doesn't know her background. He and the other script kiddies that toil away two levels down probably think she's a glorified secretary, and that's really for the best.

She clicks the drive into place and calls up the files. "What am I looking at?"

"Email files… or, I should say fragments. They don't make any sense. If they're some sort of code it's one none of us has been able to crack." He catches himself quickly but not quite quickly enough. "Not that we've been trying to crack it… or… um…"

Anthea feels herself smiling wryly, but she can't spare George much of her attention. What she sees on her screen isn't a code per se, though she can see how he might think it was. It is, in fact, an itinerary or at least part of one. To be more precise, it's a seating chart for a doomed flight.

Her perfectly manicured nails tap out a vague stuttering rhythm. "Where did you find this?"

"We've been monitoring all outgoing emails from the Bond group per Mr. Holmes' instructions and these turned up. They were sent, from what we can tell by accident, to a DOD man by the name of Charles Falkley."

And oh, she wishes he hadn't mentioned either the Bond Initiative or Charles Falkley because either one alone would be enough to send her blood pressure skyrocketing. She'd come up with the name "Bond" after glancing at the airline number for the Flight of the Living Dead and noting it was "007". Mr. Holmes had gazed at her utterly baffled until she'd explained the pop culture reference and its applicability under the circumstances. As for Mr. Falkley, well his name comprises one highlighted row in her "Friends of Irene" Excel file.

Her employer had wanted to know what tasty morsel might have been sufficient to distract Mr. Moriarty from his murderous plans for Sherlock and John. She suspects an upcoming terrorist bombing and the steps being taken to thwart it might just qualify.

She manages a weak smile for George. She'll make sure he receives a rather generous bonus as well, possibly even a promotion. Talent should be rewarded and George has proved himself and his discretion in bringing this to her attention. "Thank you, George, this is very helpful." She hopes he'll take that as a dismissal and leave because she really wants to have a good old fashioned panic attack in private.

And, bless him, he does. "Glad I could help, ma'am." He gives her some form of vaguely militaristic salute and shuffles back out the door with a self-deprecating smile that might be rather attractive if not for the train wreck of a moustache just above it.

She stares blankly into space for several long minutes before burying her face in her hands. She sighs explosively and then begins a litany of the foulest words she can remember in the five languages she's become mildly proficient in. Hopefully the patient souls who monitor the bugs in her office will appreciate the show.


	19. "Assume the position"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea puts some of her youthful indiscretions to good use.

"Assume the position," she says, using one Jimmy Choo-clad toe to move the man's legs just a little further apart. She moves around his kneeling body and arranges his shoulders into a straight, neat line then lifts his face a little higher. When he begins to raise his eyes, she slaps him soundly and he hisses with pain. "Do not lift your eyes unless you're given express permission to do so. Submission 101."

"Dammit, 'Thea, I'm just going to bollocks this up." His shoulders start to drop again and she sighs and shakes her head sadly until he straightens them.

"Sixto, you'll be fine if you'll just listen." They've been at this for hours, and her ginger-haired counterpart is no closer to being a model submissive than he was when he first slouched his way into the video monitoring room. She finds it a little odd that he's such a colossal failure at this because he's uncommonly good at surveillance and really that's all this is. The essentials are identical, keep your eyes and ears open, your mouth shut and your mind engaged. But take the man's clothes away and wrestle him into a cock ring and he just falls to pieces.

"But…"

"Stop being such a baby. This is easy-peasy. It's all just theatrics at the level you'll experience."

"She'll know I'm not who I claim to be the second I walk in the door."

Anthea sighs because seriously if Sixto doesn't stop whinging like a little girl, she's going to give him something to cry about. "Of course she will, it's all part of the scene." He will claim to be a well-trained sub who's been cut loose by an overbooked dom named Mistress Dire and is at loose ends looking for his new goddess. That Mistress Dire is an actual dominatrix who's well known for mishandling and mistreating her slaves make his inexperience and ineptitude much more believable. Dire, whose real name is Shelly Kimmons, will be entirely happy to claim Sixto as one of her former patrons after a rather generous payment.

It's unlikely that Irene will go so far as to ask since Sixto will no doubt find himself tossed out on his… ear… long before it becomes an issue. "Yes," Anthea says, stroking his hair thoughtfully, "she'll know. That's not the point. You simply need to find out where she keeps her personal files. If they're hard copy you note that and tell our team where to find them. If they're digital you find the system and we crack it and take what we want. What could be simpler?"

"My knees hurt," he grumbles sullenly, "and so does my dick. Do people really enjoy this shite?"

She would try to explain to him, but words aren't sufficient. There is a scientific explanation that's to do with endorphins and the brain chemistry of pain and arousal, but that doesn't really explain anything. Not really. There's no way to share the bone-deep need that a woman like Irene can inspire, the scandalous things she can make one do all for the joy of a small quirk of her lips.

She can't express to him the pride in holding one's tongue as the lash burns molten fire down her back, the safe word just there begging, on the tip of the tongue, to be voiced. The internal, breathless chant, 'One more, I can take another.' The need to exhaust Irene before the dominatrix can make her break.

He can't know the power of surrender without experiencing it for himself. Perhaps he never could; he may simply not be properly wired to understand it. The thought strikes her as an unutterably sad. A tragedy really.

"Had I known what a little girl you'd turn out to be, I'd have chosen Elias instead."

"Mmm, but I'm much prettier than him."

She nods; he is, younger too. Irene is choosy about her subs if Kate is any indication. Even the older gentlemen who frequent her home/dungeon are to a one elegant, refined, handsome creatures. "He has other… attributes that might make up for any short comings. And he isn't quite so prone to fidgeting and complaining."

"Like you've ever seen his 'attributes'. Go on, pull the other one, then."

"I have ball gags, you know," she replies almost amiably, then grips his hair and wrenches his head back roughly. "You're a wretched bottom."

"Agreed." If he's at all unsettled by her rough handling he doesn't show it. "Why's the Guv want me to go in? You seem the better choice."

She likes Sixto, and trusts him more than just about anyone on the planet, but… "My girlfriend wouldn't approve."

"Oh, ho." His ginger eyebrows shoot up and he grins, saying, "So that's how it is, eh? She cracks the whip or no one, huh?"

She ruffles his hair affectionately. She can't help it, he's just too absurd sometimes. "Nope, no whip cracking allowed."

"Naked pillow fights, then?"

It's a sadly cliché fantasy, still she hates to dash his simple dreams against the cliff-like reality of her very mundane relationship. "Mostly we watch telly, eat takeaway and occasionally snog. It's… nice." And it has been thus far. Harry's been considerate and kind and hasn't shown up to a single date the worse for alcohol. Indeed, to date her relationship has been all but ideal. For a certain definition of "ideal" at any rate.

"Sounds like a snoozer to me." He rights himself, attempts vainly to re-assume the proper submissive position, then gives up and stands. "I'm famished. Let's have another go after tea."

He's hopeless but she nods because she's peckish too. After grabbing his neatly folded clothing, he pauses and seems momentarily baffled. "Uh, hate to ask but, um, how do I get out of this… contraption." The cock ring isn't terribly complex, though it does require some delicacy to remove.

She smiles impishly, pats his cheek and replies, "You're a clever lad, you'll work it out."

"Aw, 'Thea give us a hand."

"Sorry," she quips, dashing out the door, "my girlfriend _definitely_ wouldn't approve."

She leaves him sputtering in the video surveillance room and all but skips back up to her office. She passes the kitchenette where her employer is currently stooped over, his face mere inches from the microwave oven as he hesitantly pushes one button after another. The device beeps cheerfully as if encouraging him but he looks almost as daunted as poor Sixto.

"How goes it?" he asks, calmly canceling his previous button selections and considering his options once more.

"Slowly." She takes the chicken curry from his hands, slides it into the microwave and hits two minutes. The device hums happily; so does Mr. Holmes.

"We do what we can with the tools at our disposal." He's apparently in one of his philosophical moods. She probably should've worked that out from the chicken curry. Indian almost always means Mycroft is likely to be thoughtful and a touch whimsical. Mediterranean tends to be the choice on more solemn occasions, and she's learned to actively avoid him when he requests something Spanish. Even the thought of paella makes her cringe.

"I suppose so."

"You have your doubts this will work." It could be a question but they both know it isn't.

She nods and folds her arms. "He'll do his best I've no doubt, but he's no match for her." Irene will pick her perfect little teeth with his lanky body.

He glances up from his intent observation of the microwave. "Would you prefer to go in?"

'Yes!' her body all but sings; her mouth is far wiser and simply replies, "No. In this I'm afraid I'm no match for her either."

Mr. Holmes sighs just a little. "Well, I suppose we could have a go at Plan B."

"Plan B?"

"Sherlock."

Her stomach feels like it's just dropped straight through the floor and her extremities are tingling. Everything feels very far away for a few seconds. When she remembers how to breathe she huffs, "Oh sir, I don't think that's a good idea."

"You believe he'll succumb to her feminine charms?" Mycroft is clearly amused by the idea. "He's failed to do so in any other case for the past thirty-five years. I can't imagine she will be the one to thaw his heart and set it aglow."

And god, he's just calmly confirmed her long-standing theory regarding Sherlock's asexuality. Where Mycroft believes it lends his brother a near mystical protection from The Woman, Anthea feels certain it will have the exact opposite effect. He'll be diamonds and chocolate and cognac all rolled up in a tall, brilliant, painfully beautiful package. Sherlock will be the ultimate conquest, a prize truly worthy of her talents. Irene will have to have him; her pride won't allow her to fail. And Sherlock…

Oh god.

A part of her wonders why she cares whether Sherlock is thrown into the sexual deep end of the pool. He's an adult, and not her relation or direct responsibility after all. Only he is her responsibility, in a way, or at least she thinks he must be in this case. The Holmes brothers are brutally intelligent, they're both cunning adversaries and utterly ruthless in pursuit of their goals. But they have their blind spots, most notably centered around one another and the subject of sex. And that is all the wiggle room Irene needs to put them off balance just long enough to move the odds in her favor.

Anthea can see it all so clearly but she can't for the life of her work out how to point to the brunette iceberg lurking just ahead. She feels trapped in a nightmare, one of those terrible dreams where she's being chased by some unseen foe and her only chance is to scream but she can't make a sound. The most frustrating part is that she doesn't even know what to scream.

Her employer touches her arm, tentative with concern. A worried little frown lingers at the edges of his cool blue-gray eyes. "Sherlock will be our weapon of last resort. Keep working with Sixto, he may yet rise to the occasion… so to speak."

The double entendre has its desired effect and she smiles weakly. "Yes, sir."

"Now let us return to the office and have a brief chat regarding the Bond flight, shall we?"

She nods as firmly as she can manage. "I'll be along in a moment."

As she watches him go she thinks that perhaps it's a bad sign that the prospect of a discussion about a terrorist bombing fills her with an immediate sense of relief. But not complete relief, she knows very well there is only one move a pawn like herself can make on this board and hope to effect the game. So, of course, she makes it by pulling out her mobile and sending Irene a text. _'We need to talk.'_


	20. "Plan B?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea attempts to stop the dominoes from falling to no avail.

Her chair is a decadent miracle of ergonomic engineering, a little slice of heaven complete with lumbar support. Most days she can remain comfortably seated in it for hours without needing so much as a stretch. Today she can manage about five minutes between squirms, and it's driving her profoundly mental.

Her bottom is a veritable crime scene of welts. She can clearly remember sitting through an entire two-hour computer science exam in a similar condition without losing the slightest bit of focus. Now she can't make it through a single email without changing position at least three times. She really is getting old.

Part of the problem, she thinks, is that she can take no satisfaction in the pain now, no triumph nor joy. Each stripe is more accusation than accolade, a silent reminder that she has placed herself in Irene's power to absolutely no avail thus far. She can name every vicious instrument and restraint in the dominatrix's oeuvre but is no closer to discovering the whereabouts of her private files.

Anthea peruses the Flash drive copy of Irene's computer for the fifth time. But there's nothing. Well, her schedule of appointments, rough drafts of blog entries and ideas for her Twitter feed. Of course there are also thousands of tasteful, though provocative images of The Woman presumably for her website. Or perhaps for some upcoming dominatrix-themed novelty calendar.

She knows Irene keeps a safe in the house but has had absolutely no luck in locating it. That may have something to do with the amount of time she currently seems to spend on her knees in Irene's presence. Possibly. Regardless she's almost certain the files exist on a drive in that safe. Honestly, it's the only place left to look.

Her office phone buzzes and she responds automatically. "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Would you be so kind as to join me briefly?"

Standing is an excruciating test of will. She finds herself taking tiny steps out of habit, the ghost of a thin gold chain tugging between her ankles. She forces herself to take large, almost awkward steps in retaliation and wobbles precariously on her three inch heels.

Mr. Holmes' hands are resting together as if in prayer, his face an abstract work of flesh and shadows in the late afternoon light. She approaches the desk a bit warily; his body language fairly screams a warning of dire news. "Sir?"

He blinks slowly, then more quickly as if just waking, and smiles at her. Gesturing her closer, she rounds the desk and prays he won't ask her to sit. Without a word he reaches out to take her left wrist in his hand. His thumb traces the faint bruises left by her frantic struggles against the leather cuffs of the St. Andrews Cross. Irene's wicked little bamboo cane had set her to dancing like a crazed marionette that night. It seemed hours before The Woman's arm had finally tired. "Agent Neilson has discovered the leaked email."

He continues to finger the restrain marks thoughtfully, almost like a young child tracing the letters of the alphabet for the first time. Her employer understands, on a theoretical level at least, that there's a meaning to be found in the Braille-like sensations beneath his fingers but it's clearly beyond his comprehension. He gives up with a mildly annoyed sigh and releases her. "Our timetable has been moved forward accordingly, I'm afraid. The Americans are threatening action 'ASAP'." The acronym appears to leave something of a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Plan B?" she asks, her voice astonishingly small in the quiet office.

"I'm afraid so. Please send transport for Dr. Watson. He's currently trekking about the countryside looking into a rather pedestrian death by misadventure."

"And your brother?"

"Sulking at home unless I miss my guess. Best send two men for him. He's most assuredly in one of his little moods. Have them brought to the Palace. I'll contact the Equerry myself."

She frowns. "The Equerry?"

"Yes, I think it wiser to set Sherlock on the trail of some scandalous photos rather than leaked, highly classified information. He is, after all, rather bored at the moment. Heaven knows what mischief he'd get up to."

And of course they both remember what happened the last time Mycroft set him after missing classified information.

"Yes, sir," is what she says, but she's already working out how to follow her orders and then get to Irene before Sherlock and John can. It shouldn't be difficult. Sherlock will put up a fuss and all but need to be dragged there, and John's fairly far afield. She can do it; the question is how does she convince Irene that the stakes of her little game have just risen exponentially and that it's well past time to cash out?

\--

The Woman grins, all shockingly white teeth and girlish delight. "All this for me? I must admit I'm flattered."

Anthea wilts, not because she hadn't fully expected this response, rather that she hadn't come to a conclusion regarding how best to respond to it. "Irene, please listen to me…"

"I have, pet, but _you_ aren't listening to _me._ " There's a threat implicit in her tone, a haughty certainty too. Mother knows best, after all. "This is exactly what I was hoping for."

"They'll kill you if they have to." She tries pleading first, it comes most naturally in Irene's presence after all. "Just give them what they want and they'll leave you alone."

"So the CIA's interested in royal sex scandals, are they?" Irene's gray eyes are sparkling like gemstones, and every bit as cold. "Fascinating. Tell me, when did the Americans discover this deep and abiding concern with the royals… beyond the occasional wedding I mean? Is this a new development? It must be, I expect."

Anthea sighs and tries a different tactic. "Irene, this isn't a game."

"Isn't it?" The diminutive dominatrix quirks one coal-black eyebrow and continues. "It's all a game, all of it-- relationships, families, businesses, governments. Power and money are simply how we keep score. I've been playing very successfully for a long while now. It's time I graduated to the next level."

The Woman is half convinced that what she's saying is true, but there's more to the story than boredom and her own certainty in her abilities. There's an undercurrent of tension; maybe it's the way her eyes flit from Anthea to the fireplace, then the window. She's excited and nervous and… something Anthea can't quite put her finger on. Is it fear? It could be; it should be considering Mr. Moriarty's involvement. But… no. No, not fear, or at least not entirely fear.

Avarice has always been Irene's Achilles heel and Anthea thinks it must be in this case as well. But money doesn't seem to interest her, she could've blackmailed the government quite successfully ten times over by now. "Irene…"

The Woman stands in one fluid motion, her pencil skirt sliding flawlessly into place around her perfect little hips. She places one nimble hand beneath Anthea's chin and asks, "Am I beautiful?"

"Yes." God, yes.

"Can you imagine anyone who wouldn't desire me?"

Anthea drops her eyes because she can imagine at least three people with absolutely no difficulty whatsoever. She thinks it would somehow be cruel to let Irene see it so plainly on her face, though. "I…"

Fortunately Irene seems to have been speaking rhetorically; her eyes are wide and bright, the corners of her lips turned up. She's lost in some beautiful, illicit fantasy where all her plans come to fruition and she reigns ascendant. And she wonders who is there at The Woman's side in her vision. Who is chief consort? Who sits at the right hand of the Goddess?

It won't be Kate, not obedient, capable Kate. Nor will it be Anthea herself; Irene's thoughts are miles away from her now… and Anthea doesn't want that anyway. She truly doesn't. So why is she almost insanely jealous of this imaginary lover?

"I can win this, pet." Irene's voice is breathy and low, she sounds exactly as if she were on the precipice of a toe-curling orgasm. She cards a hand through Athea's dark locks. "I can win."

Anthea wants to ask 'And then what?' What does someone who has everything they ever wanted choose to do with the rest of their life? It's a pointless question because this game is rigged, and Irene seems to be the only one who hasn't heard that the house always wins in the end. Even if everything goes according to Irene's no doubt labyrinthine plans it's a certainty that Moriarty will kill her and take it all for himself. He'll do it in some whimsical way, perhaps a nitroglycerine cored riding crop or poisoned edible massage oil. She expects only he and her employer will actually get the joke.

So she asks a question to which there might be a rational answer. "What do you want from me?"

That gets Irene's attention. She looks as thought she's about to deny that she wants anything at all for a moment, but something in Anthea's face changes her mind. "I want you to tell me what you know of my opponent…"

Anthea stiffens, her heart tripping as irregularly as a broken cart wheel. She won't betray Mr. Holmes, not now or ever. She will go home, pick up her revolver, return and put a bullet coolly between Irene's eye first.

Her panic is interrupted as Irene continues, "…Sherlock Holmes."

And suddenly she can breathe again because it's Sherlock, not Mycroft, and Sherlock does not hold her mind, heart and soul in the palm of his long-fingered hands. He is the inconvenience, the impediment, the self-destructive twat whose only reliable characteristics are unerringly hideous timing and petulance. She can betray Sherlock, at least a little, and her employer will merely raise an amused eyebrow. She knows this because he's betrayed his brother far more profoundly; she's seen him do it. He won't hold this against her; especially if she's successful in staying close to Irene by disclosing it. No, he won't mind at all. "What do you want to know?" 

Irene's scarlet lips caress her reply like a kiss. "Everything."


	21. Agent Neilson would you be so kind as to summarize the logistical goals and outcomes of today's action?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Agent Neilson makes a somewhat less impressive re-appearance and Anthea considers punching him...again.
> 
> A short chapter inspired by [**a behind the scenes photo at Sherlockology.**](http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lpx8383G3o1qjn7nd.jpg)

Anthea can't decide which she finds funnier, the photo of Sherlock standing resolute, peevish and strangely dignified wrapped in nothing but a white sheet in front of his Baker Street flat… or DI Lestrade's posted video of Sherlock off his gourd babbling excitedly about oysters taking over the world while John attempts to stuff him into the back seat of a police vehicle. It's a remarkably tough call. She posts links to both on their internal server and creates a poll; it has 10 responses in under 30 seconds. The video appears to be in the lead, and she can't help smiling.

It's the only reason she's had to do so today. She's sore and tired and profoundly annoyed that she's had to cancel another date with Harry. That's not Mr. Holmes' fault, she reminds herself in a silent mantra as she trails along in his wake. They enter her office and she realizes her day is about to become a great deal better or far, far worse.

Agent Neilson sits in stony silence with a black eye and two steri-strips holding a gash on his forehead together. He glares at them both as they enter, though she fancies he holds her gaze just a fraction longer. Mr. Holmes merely smiles politely in return and tucks his umbrella away. "Please step into my office, Agent Neilson."

He gestures for her to follow as well, and she does so with a barely concealed grin. She's to be part of the punishment, then, how delightful! Her employer is making a point that should be simple enough even for a thug like Neilson to grasp. She stands at Mr. Holmes' right hand as if she were some Biblical saint favored by the Almighty himself. As far as Neilson is concerned she might just as well be. Neilson takes one of the guest chairs across from them both, his jaw clenched so tightly she thinks he may well break a tooth.

"If you think…" the CIA agent begins.

Mycroft cuts him off swiftly and elegantly, "Agent Neilson would you be so kind as to summarize the logistical goals and outcomes of today's action?" He unfolds a hand lazily in Anthea's direction. "My assistant will need to fill out the requisite paperwork, you see. The criminal documentation regarding firearms use, attempted kidnapping, attempted murder, assault, breaking and entering and of course attempted robbery. Have I overlooked anything?" He doesn't wait for a response. "Then there's the insurance paperwork for damages to Ms. Adler's home and her… companion. With any luck my brother will forego charges, but one can never be entirely certain. He's prone to bouts of petty vindictiveness, you see, especially when his doctor friend is threatened."

Neilson's sour look has shifted to an almost adolescent pout. "I wasn't actually going to…"

"Really? How strange. My brother is usually quite adept at discerning false threats from legitimate ones. It's unlike him to simply acquiesce to your demands if he weren't convinced that you sincerely meant to shoot Dr. Watson in the head. And one wonders what might have happened if your 'bluff' had been called. Would you have sent them on their way? Perhaps called it a simple misunderstanding? But," Mycroft's smile is terrifyingly calm as he continues, "let's set that aside for the moment and consider what, precisely, you've accomplished today."

"What I've accomplished? You've just sat there doing nothing for weeks when our entire operation's been compromised and you expect us to just…"

"I _expect_ you to behave as the professionally trained agent you were purported to be. Sadly, instead you decide to throw aside weeks of careful infiltration and observation in order to storm into Adler's house, bludgeon her assistant then threaten her and my agents with death unless the mobile containing the leaked email was turned over to you immediately. Allow me now to summarize what your actions have, in fact, wrought. One, Adler has fled with said mobile and will have to be rather painstakingly located. Two, my brother, who was hitherto unaware of any larger conspiracy at play other than a few scandalous photos of a member of the royal family, is now aware that Ms. Adler is in possession of something far more valuable and dangerous. He will, unless he's received one too many blows to the head, realize that if the CIA is involved the information she holds is what I truly desire to obtain. This, I assure you, is profoundly antithetical to our aim. And last, but hardly least, Scotland Yard is now asking a number of questions regarding yourself and your little chums that must be addressed. So, when we take these facts into consideration, I think we can both agree that your hasty, ill-conceived, one might even venture to say 'amateur', actions have set us back rather badly."

Neilson remains stonily silent, his right hand twitching occasionally towards his concealed weapon. Anthea almost wishes he'd complete the gesture, it would give her the perfect excuse to disarm him in as painful and emasculating a method as she can conceive on the fly.

"Let us not dwell on the past, however. Instead we should focus our attention on the future. A future in which I will steer my brother towards the acquisition of Ms. Adler's mobile and, if God is kind, convince him to then turn said device over to myself. In the meantime; you will do nothing without my explicit permission."

"This is a joint operation!" Neilson grinds out between nearly locked jaws. "You can't make a decree like that. My country has just as much to lose."

Mr. Holmes stares unblinking at Neilson for several long, uncomfortable seconds. "Perhaps I've not been sufficiently clear. You, Agent Neilson, have thoroughly cocked up what would and should have been a rather routine re-acquisition of leaked information. You have done so without informing your partners in this 'joint mission' and have therefore crossed several lines, any of which would give me ample cause and full jurisdiction to have you removed not only from this city, but the country itself. I am, however, not choosing to do so in an attempt to maintain our normally amicable working arrangement. Is that clearer, or do I need to speak to your superiors?"

Neilson wilts slightly and nods. There's little else he can do really.

"Excellent. Please be so kind as to turn over all recordings made in Ms. Adler's home to Anthea." He turns his attention to several files on his desk and waves dismissively at the cowed man. Neilson grimaces and slinks from the office without a backwards glance. "That went better than expected."

"Depends, sir, I'd rather hoped for the excuse to sock him one," she replies serenely.

His lips twitch slightly. "Oh, I shouldn't give up on that desire just yet. I expect you'll have ample opportunities in the upcoming weeks."

"You don't think he'll follow your orders then?"

"I think," Mycroft sighs and twists the gold band on his right ring finger thoughtfully, "my brother is more likely to take up ballet."

"Well," she admits, "he does have the legs for it."

Mycroft's reply is non-committal. "Mmm. Please be so kind as to go through the surveillance tapes when Neilson sends them over. Perhaps we can glean what her next move might be."

"Of course." She pauses and adds, "she won't go far, she can't sir, she's…" Anthea searches for the right word. Obsessed? Enthralled? She finally settles on, "Smitten."

"Well then, we need only wait until she makes contact. In the meantime, I believe we have one or two more passengers to book for our flight, do we not?"

"Yes sir, I've got a lead on two terminal cases up north that might just do the trick."

"Excellent." Only her employer could possibly sound so enthusiastic about the imminent demise of two of their fellow citizens. "Do keep me apprised. And send an email to our German counterparts. Scotland Yard has been decidedly enthusiastic in their pursuit of the passenger they rather carelessly abandoned at Heathrow. It's most… distressing.'

"I'll get right on that, sir."


	22. "She's practically stalking him."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond Air is back in business and Anthea decides she needs a new ally.

Patience isn't, as many are inclined to believe, an inborn trait. Anthea knows that while some might have a stronger natural propensity towards it from birth, it's still a skill that must be honed. She goes to the shooting range to improve her aim, and she sits quietly in the office waiting to hear from Mr. Holmes to improve her patience.

Of course she's not just sitting there doing nothing, there are emails to answer and phone calls to answer, but her real work is on hold. Bond Air currently exists in a sort of top secret purgatory while they wait to see what, if anything, Irene knows about the email she lifted from her DOD client. Mycroft is ever so gently prodding his brother for information, no doubt engaging in their standard give and take of deceit, disdain and sarcasm. 

When her phone rings she all but launches herself at it, answering with a cheerful, "Yes, sir?"

"He doesn't have it." Mr. Holmes sounds mildly ambivalent. "However, as Ms. Adler has had possession of the message for several months now and has failed to act on it, one hopes for the best."

Not the news she'd been hoping to hear, though it could certainly have been worse. She'd imagined a smug Sherlock dangling the phone, and worse, the deciphered email in front of his brother's nose with unrestrained glee. Still, an unaccounted for Irene is a dangerous Irene. It makes the hair on the back of Anthea's neck rise. She breaks out in gooseflesh and knows precisely who's treading on her grave… in stiletto fuck-me pumps. "Orders?"

"Continue surveillance on her house and her assistant. Follow any available leads. Oh, and one more thing, Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot."

She hears the click as he disconnects and she pauses, phone in hand for a moment. She taps the mobile on the desk and thinks finding Irene may just be the ultimate needle in a haystack. If Irene doesn't want to be found she won't be, at least not so long as her former lovers are willing, or coerced, into helping her.

She'll keep Elias on Irene's home and Sixto trailing Kate like some love struck paramour. She trusts the latter enough not to get caught, but rather likes the fact that he'll have a viable cover story if he is. Of course it's one that might well get him locked up for a bit, but she doesn't think it'll come to that. And if it does, well, that's what their legal team exists for- that and paying damages caused by Agent Neilson's ill-conceived operations within city limits.

She's been over the audio files from Neilson's team a dozen times, it confirms her theories and fears rather neatly. Irene is playing with Sherlock to be certain, but she's deadly serious about desiring him. The only question is how long will she be able to wait before making her next move? Unlike Anthea, Irene's never bothered working on her own patience. What she desires she desires right this instant, not an hour from now, a day or a week.

Anthea sighs and runs a hand through her chestnut locks. She'll put two more men on Baker Street just in case. Devon and Cicero, she thinks, as they're the least likely to be driven to shooting Sherlock despite his antics. They've also been thoroughly vetted regarding connections to Irene. It's impossible to be too careful in that regard.

Aside from that she'll monitor Scotland Yard for any word on Irene, or she'll have DI Lestrade do the monitoring and simply notify her. God bless ambitious Detective Inspectors, she thinks with a smile. If Irene turns up in their files she'll know within minutes. And of course her team is busily scanning their own CCTV footage for any sign of The Woman.

Despite all these steps she still feels as if she's missing something, some obvious oversight that could make this task a bit simpler. When she finally has her epiphany, she very nearly smacks her forehead with the mobile still in her hand. She has one more resource to reach out to, someone not at all well disposed towards Irene who may just be both willing and able to help. 'Hello, John,' she texts, 'busy tonight?'

\--

As it turns out he is, though he seems a bit fuzzy on the details regarding the woman his plans are with. They agree to meet the next evening at a small Italian restaurant with absolutely no ties to either Holmes brother. She knows this because she checked… thoroughly. It doesn't pay to be too careful where the Holmeses are concerned.

John arrives wearing an honest to god suit. He looks roughly as comfortable in it as she would in full combat gear. Clearly he's under the impression that he's finally worn her down. Clearly he's not all that serious about the woman he's seeing. It makes Anthea a little sad as he sits fussing nervously with a tie that was never meant to be worn by someone with his coloring.

"So," he begins while earnestly paging through the wine list.

"So," she agrees with a playful smile. She's in the mood for ravioli and hopes he chooses a nice red.

"I keep expecting Mycroft to show up." He pauses then glances up. "He isn't going to, is he?"

"Not unless you'd like me to invite him."

"No! God, no! It's, it's just that every time I see you he's either perched on that damn umbrella or lurking around a corner. You two are almost always, well, attached."

"Oh not always." She reaches for the wine list because as much as she likes him she really needs a nice glass of wine now. She motions the waiter over and places her order, biting her tongue at the last second to keep from ordering the chicken cacciatore that her employer has never been able to resist. John goes with a simple spaghetti and meatballs. She finds herself a bit charmed.

"To what do I owe this pleasure then?"

She knows what he's half expecting, half hoping she'll say, and she's never been terribly fond of kicking puppies but he almost seems to enjoy it in some way. "I wanted to speak with you privately about the Adler case."

His face rather predictably falls, but he bucks up quickly and assumes his best "concerned doctor" expression. "I see."

No, he really doesn't, but she's hoping he will before the food arrives. "There are some facts regarding Ms Adler that my employer has… neglected to share with Sherlock. Undoubtedly he was right to do so on a variety of levels, but…" She forces herself to stop and take a breath. This almost feels like breaking a commandment, and she's waiting almost anxiously for lightning to strike her down where she sits.

"But?" he prompts gently.

"We believe there may be a tie between Adler and Moriarty."

He sucks in a breath and straightens with alarm. They wait as their wine is poured, and she has hers in hand before the waiter's even stepped away from the table. "How do you…" John lowers his voice and leans closer. "How do you know that?"

Anthea shakes her head because she's not sure how much of this conversation will get back to Sherlock. Probably all of it, she suspects. He will, in turn, throw it in his brother's face at the first opportunity so she needs to tread carefully. "That's classified. Suffice to say someone made Moriarty a better offer at the pool and we're reasonably sure it was her."

He digests that along with a sip of wine. "And you think Moriarty let us live over the promise of some indelicate photos of a royal?"

"No," she says calmly and carefully. She feels like she's treading on ice. "No I don't."

John's eyes meet and hold hers, she can see the questions he wants to ask and the frustration of knowing she can't and won't answer most of them. But she also sees resolve; he's already identified Irene as a threat and begun creating strategies to protect Sherlock. This conversation has changed his vague anxieties to a very palpable and credible concern. And John has a somewhat limited but very effective problem solving skill set when it comes to threats to Sherlock.

"All right, even if she is connected to Moriarty she's probably halfway around the world by now."

Anthea smiles politely at the waiter and digs into her ravioli while considering her response. John's fishing, obviously, because she happens to know Irene's been in touch with Sherlock ever since dropping off his coat. Mycroft had found the text alerts rather tedious in short order but seemed to enjoy how uncomfortable they made his brother. "We know she hasn't gone far." Anthea meets his eyes and adds, "And so do you."

His fork pauses midway to his mouth, and it's the clearest expression of guilt she's ever had the pleasure to witness. He grimaces when he realizes he's given himself away and lowers his fork. "She's been texting him incessantly," he admits, and if that isn't just a hint of jealousy she'll eat her favorite pair of Jimmy Choos. "She's practically stalking him."

Anthea nods in lieu of a response, savoring her spinach ravioli and thinking that John is just too precious for words. She does wonder how long he's going to stubbornly cling to his heterosexuality in the face of such obvious attraction to his flatmate. And what about the highly strung, asexual detective? How will Sherlock respond if John does take the first step?

He sits back in his chair with a sigh and folds his arms across his chest. "Okay, so now what am I supposed to do with this information? He's no more likely to listen to me about how dangerous she might be than he would Mycroft." He considers that statement and amends, "Well, all right, he might listen to me slightly more than his brother, but that's not really saying much."

Shrugging, Anthea affects her usual mild indifference. "It's really up to you what you do with it. Tell Sherlock, or don't, but you might want to let me know if she does anything more aggressive than a few text messages."

"It's more than 'a few'," John snaps, then seems to catch himself and says more evenly, "but I'll let you know if she proposes a meeting or, god forbid, shows up." He leans forward again, his voice low but intense as he says, "And in return, you ring me up about any Moriarty activity that might effect Sherlock."

The seriousness of his words and tone is somewhat undermined by the fact that his tie has landed firmly in the marinara sauce. She hopes he takes it as a sign from a higher power that the thing really needs to find its way to a rubbish bin sooner rather than later. Her lips quirking, she nods. "I can do that."

He's so pleased with himself that he hasn't noticed the damage to his tie. She wonders idly what Sherlock will read from the splotchy tomato stain- probably the entire contents of their conversation and the restaurant it took place in. Not to mention the culinary training of the head chef.

"Right then." John reaches for his fork and belatedly notices his tie. He deflates just a little. "Bugger."


	23. " I…I don't like to see you in pain is all."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea is one step ahead of her employer and perhaps a step or two behind her girlfriend.

John is as good as his word and keeps her apprised of the near constant requests for Sherlock to join Irene for dinner. "He hasn't answered a single one." If John sounds a bit smug it's because he's under the impression that Sherlock has somehow decided Irene is beneath his notice or has lost interest in her due to her obvious moral failings. John believes this because it's how he would react under similar circumstances.

Anthea thinks it's far more likely that Sherlock is simply puzzled as to a) what she's trying to accomplish, and b) how on Earth he's meant to respond. If she'd sent him vaguely threatening texts written in code he'd have gleefully responded to each one. He might well have accepted a dinner invitation just to see if he could work out which of the dishes was likeliest to be poisoned.

They are, however, speaking entirely different languages and neither one (brilliant though they may be) is aware of it. She wonders vaguely if she's wrong to withhold her own translating services in this case. Perhaps. But the idea of Sherlock falling under Irene's sway is an unsettling one. How long would it be before she tired of him? He might be the Mount Everest of sexual conquests, but once you've reached the summit and planted your proverbial flag, what then?

She decides this is a situation best monitored from a distance, and preferably not meddled with. If neither of them can see the potential disaster the other presents, then it's depressingly unlikely that they'd listen to her. She's tried with Irene, after all, and Sherlock is far less inclined to pay her the slightest heed.

He also has John to look after him. Thoughtful, even-tempered, pragmatic John will keep him on, if not a steady path, at least a moderately sane one. Between his influence and Mycroft's benevolent coercion she reassures herself that he, at least, will come out of this game intact.

Irene on the other hand…

But that's not her concern, for now they are moving at a decidedly speedy clip towards the completion of the Bond Air gambit. She's working feverishly on backgrounds for all their "passengers", including grieving families, angry message boards, a victim's wife's blog which will have a thoughtful, though melancholy tone, and a variety of other little side projects to flesh out the entire ruse.

Mr. Holmes hadn't really seen the need for such details until she'd quite rightly pointed out that people would expect to see angry, grieving family members on the news and forming queues at the airport. One can't have a disaster without a very public display of outrage and grief.

It was, she is quite certain, the first time she's ever been a step ahead of her employer. Of course he hadn't considered it because the emotional aspect of the project was simply not a part of his agenda. He saw it as incidental, utterly unimportant. To him, she supposes, it is, and it's one more little indicator that the wrong Holmes brother was diagnosed as a sociopath.

When she'd finished making her point, he'd congratulated her on her acuity and immediately put her in charge. It's been a dreadful slog for the most part as her IT group don't have the necessary clearance to lend a hand. Still, she feels a certain sense of accomplishment as she creates a veritable orchestra of grief and loss.

She also feels a bit queasy about the whole thing… from time to time.

She's discovered, though, that a short break seasoned with just a touch of Harry Watson puts her back on an even enough keel. Of course "a touch" is the very definition of their relationship to date. There's snogging on various pieces of furniture in Harry's adorable late Victorian home, some touching and cuddling in front of the telly, that sort of thing. It's sweet and relaxing and so profoundly different from the lust-driven relationships she's experienced in the past that she's uncertain how to quantify it exactly. If her employer were the sort to ask after the success of her current relationship she honestly wouldn't know what to tell him.

Part of the slow pace she knows is attributable to Harry's continued feelings for her ex-wife… and not to put too fine a point on it, her unhealthy relationship with alcohol. That's not the whole story, of course, and Anthea knows she's as much to blame, if "blame" is even the right word. 

She feels like she's creating this relationship in much the same way she has those of the families and loved ones of the Bond Air passengers. It's almost as if the whole thing rests on a fictional foundation, or a partially fictional foundation. After all "Anthea" is a fiction… of a sort, but she's not certain Miranda would be any more honest at this point. 

She finds herself spending more time than she should running scenarios regarding just how it will all unravel in the end. None involve nationwide scandal and possible incarceration (yet) but she's certain it's just a matter of time. She's decided not to dwell on that, though.

For the moment she tries to leave the office at a reasonable hour and to avoid canceling too many consecutive dates if she can help it. Given Irene's retreat and Mr. Moriarty's… distraction, work has been busy but neither dire nor terrifying in weeks. The marks and injuries from her little foray back into the world of masochism are quite healed, so that's no longer an impediment either.

Anthea forces herself to tuck these thoughts away and slides onto the loveseat, kicking off her pumps with an audible and very heartfelt sigh. Harry immediately takes her feet into her lap and sets to work on them. The bookseller's hands are damn near magical to Anthea's mind, and she's coming to depend on these massages in a way that makes her feel a bit uneasy.

"You know," Harry comments casually, "you'd end up with a lot less foot pain if only you'd deign to wear sensible shoes."

Anthea's lips curl unconsciously. "Don't you like the way I look in my shoes?" It's an absurd question; she's seen Harry's eyes linger on her legs and ass often enough. Ms. Watson loves what those ridiculously high heels do for her girlfriend's body.

"Yes, of course," the other woman admits easily enough. "That's not the point. Your feet are always hurting because of the bloody things. I… I don't like to see you in pain is all."

And that is… well, Anthea's not quite sure what to name her reaction. She's not used to someone being so concerned about her. Not that Mr. Holmes doesn't worry about her in his own distant, calculating way; but he's certainly never fretted over her relative comfort. And he's noticed, of course. There's nothing he _doesn't_ notice, it's simply never occurred to him to say anything about it.

Some part of her likes that Harry has said something. Another part thinks that's just going to make their eventual break up hurt so much more.

She decides to say nothing and forces her tight muscles to unclench one by one. Silently she recites the names and seat numbers of each passenger on Flight 007 until she feels calm and focused on this moment, not some dark future without Harry. An enigmatic smile plays at the edges of her lips.

Harry glances up. "What?" The older woman's expression is puzzled. "I have absolutely no idea what that look means."

"It means," Anthea purrs, leaning closer, "I love a good foot rub." She folds up and kisses Harry in a way that says, 'Thank you for caring about my feet', if Harry's really paying attention. She's going to set this fear aside for now because this sort of concern isn't at all like her mother's domineering, disapproving style; nor is it the 'I sincerely hope you weren't struck by a stray bullet meant for me' variety her employer can manage. It's comfortable in an everyday sort of way that has nothing whatsoever to do with government conspiracies or terrorist plots or even lovesick dominatrices.

It's… nice.

Harry's changing channels with one hand while the other continues to knead Anthea's tired right foot. "Oooh, how about a James Bond marathon?" 

Anthea bursts into laugher, a silly, happy sort that burns away any remaining niggling little fears. She wiggles her toes suggestively and says, "Why not?"


	24. "My brother's spending the hols with his boyfriend this year,"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea spends the holidays in a rather unexpected way.

She's been planning to spend the holidays on her own. It's tradition after all. But Harry corners her in the kitchen rather unexpectedly one night and rather turns that plan on its ear.

"My brother's spending the hols with his boyfriend this year," says Harry with a twitch of her shoulders that might be considered a shrug.

Anthea would correct her but she's only partially incorrect. Of course Sherlock would have to be able to set aside his pride for the ten seconds it would require him to talk John into bed, and she doesn't see that happening any time soon. "Oh," is all she replies.

"So…" Harry pauses, her brow furrows and she begins again, "You know what, never mind. I mean I'm sure you've got plans already and…"

"Well…" Anthea tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles winsomely. "I do now."

And that is how they come to be decorating a small, nearly bare and decidedly lopsided excuse for a Christmas tree. When her phone rings, "Umbrella" is playing so she grabs for it while a bemused Harry mutes the telly and continues to fling tinsel in random patterns on the sickly little branches. "Sir?"

He pauses and her whole body goes cold. This is bad, very bad. "I've just spoken to my brother." His voice is a calm monotone as he says, "He has Ms. Adler's mobile and believes she's… deceased."

She knows she should have something to say about this but for the life of her she can't think of a single thing. Instead she just breathes and tries not to notice the darkness encroaching on her peripheral vision. She will not pass out, she will not.

"A body matching her description has made an appearance at St. Bartholomew's. Oddly enough, the face is sufficiently disfigured to make a positive identification through ordinary means difficult. I'm escorting Sherlock there in an hour's time… but if you felt able…"

"Yes, I… I'll come." She finds she can speak after all, but wonders if it has something to do with Mr. Holmes' implication that the body might not be that of Irene after all. She does have to admit that it seems an extraordinary coincidence about the facial disfigurement. It's all just a bit too convenient really.

"Excellent. I'll see you there."

She turns to Harry who's staring at her wide-eyed, tinsel dangling forgotten from her fingertips. "What's happened?"

"I need to… I have to identify a body at the morgue."

"On Christmas Eve?" Harry catches herself immediately, shakes her head and sputters, "That isn't… what I mean is… look, I've got a car. I can drive you if you like."

Some part of Anthea comes loose and at the offer, as if Harry's pulled free an impediment jamming up the gears of her heart. Suddenly she can move and think again. The darkness recedes a bit. "Thanks, I'd appreciate that."

\--

She discovers that Harry drives as if she expects to encounter roadside bombs or packs of armed attackers at every turn. She hunches over the wheel, white knuckled and hyper-observant. Anthea's glad she tends to rely upon the Tube more often than not; this can't be good for her blood pressure.

There's an astonishing amount of parking just in front of the main entrance, and they slide smoothly in behind Mr. Holmes' car. He's clearly still inside the building. She knows this because Bernard is slouching against the hood smoking. He turns his collar up and nods as she gets out of the car. She smiles in reply then turns back to Harry and says, "This shouldn't take long."

"S'all right. Go do what you have to do, luv."

Harry's been wonderful throughout this already horrific night. She's curious about the whole affair, but had accepted the explanation that an old acquaintance has gone missing and is feared dead. She's the only one who can identify her, there's simply no one else to do it. It's her responsibility on a variety of levels too numerous and complicated to dwell on let alone voice.

The older woman just nodded, but the side glances she's occasionally shot Anthea make it clear that she's correctly interpreted "old acquaintance" as "former lover". Given Harry's rather compulsive relationship with her ex-wife, she seems disinclined to take issue with it, however. Instead she's focused whatever emotions she might be feeling on the unseen dangers of the road.

Anthea hurries into Bart's where she immediately finds Mr. Holmes seated primly, gloves folded beneath his hands on the handle of his umbrella. She smells cigarette smoke and immediately thinks both 'Danger Night' and 'Oh, poor John.' Or, she supposes, poor John's girlfriend.

Mycroft stands smoothly, his face politely concerned. He rests one hand reassuringly on her elbow and guides her to the lift. When the doors close he says, "Sherlock believes it's her."

Anthea stiffens slightly but manages to sound almost normal when she asks, "How can he be certain?"

"Apparently he saw her en flagrante quite long enough to work out her measurements and general physical topography. Still," he sighs thoughtfully, "I always find it wise to get a second opinion."

He's right, of course. Sherlock may be almost unequaled when it comes to observational skills but Anthea knows The Woman in every possible sense. One can't spend hours in body worship without coming to an entirely new understanding of someone. She and Kate are the only ones with the requisite experience to truly identify Irene's body sans face. Kate is… rather unlikely to help, and they'd be disinclined to believe her if she did. "Of course, sir."

They ride the rest of the way accompanied by a particularly dreadful version of "Come Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen". When the elevator doors open her employer doesn't dash out expecting her to obediently follow; rather he steps out and returns his hand to her elbow, walking side by side. The silence would almost seem companionable were they not entering a hospital morgue.

The attendant is a mousy little creature named Molly who flinches just a bit as they enter. "Oh," she squeaks, promptly dropping some sort of clamp onto a tray full of similar tools, "I thought… I mean Sherlock already…" Her hands go wide and helpless as her words stumble to a halt. Anthea suddenly has the insane urge to bundle this tiny woman in her arms like a frightened child. "I was going to return the… uh, the body…"

Mr. Holmes opts for his most beguiling and harmless smile. She's seen world leaders buckle like hormonal schoolgirls in the wake of that smile and Molly is clearly not immune. The woman even manages a hesitant, jerky half smile in return. "So sorry to be a bother, I quite understand the imposition, especially on Christmas Eve, but I assure you this will be my last visit and a very brief one."

He's caught Molly's eyes and the poor creature resembles nothing so much as a terrified field mouse. "Um…"

His voice goes surprisingly soft and gentle, almost paternal. "Perhaps I could buy you a cocoa while my assistant examines the body."

"That's so funny," she chirps, clearly not used to such attention or kindness, "I was just thinking I could go for…" Her voice trails off as her mind attempts to work out whether Mycroft is, in fact, psychic.

"Shall we go?" He actually offers Molly his arm, she takes it with a flustered, incoherent noise somewhere between pleasure and panic. "Perhaps I could tell you about Sherlock's favorite Christmas gift, hmm?"

Anthea watches them go and thinks she'd much prefer to join them. Sadly she has a job to do, a job that leaves her oddly ambivalent and hollow inside. She has to force herself to move closer to the steel table and its blanket-covered occupant. The smell of decay is still subtle, or is being tolerably masked by the blanket and surrounding acrid chemicals.

Pausing to pull on a pair of latex gloves, she takes a deep breath then flings the covering from the corpse. A glance is all she'll allow herself of the swollen, mangled face before turning her attention to the torso. She finds herself reluctant to lean any closer than absolutely necessary. It's not that she's squeamish really; she's had experience with corpses before on several occasions, even handled one or two. So it isn't the sight or the smell that bothers her. The cold, waxy texture is unpleasant but that isn't what makes her hesitate either. What she finds so disturbing about the dead is how utterly still they are. It's absurd and she freely admits that, but it makes her positively want to cringe away from the body.

She forces herself to focus on her task, creating a mental checklist she will follow as she progresses down the length of the corpse. The size and coloration is correct overall, moles and nipples the same size and color she is expecting to see. The hands are immaculately manicured and there are the calluses one would expect to see on digits used to handling bullwhips and riding crops.

Her eyes trace down the narrow little hips and perfect thighs, dainty ankles and perfect toes. Everything is as it should be and yet… and yet there's something niggling at her to keep looking. She does, as that instinct has never yet led her astray.

Just before their split nearly a decade prior Anthea remembers a night spent pleasuring Irene for an hour, jaw and tongue in near agony and The Woman moaning for more. Anthea, or rather Miranda at the time, had been frustrated and tired and oh so certain she was on the verge of losing everything. Perhaps it was despair or anger that drove her to sink her teeth into the tender flesh of Irene's left thigh until she drew blood.

It was unclear who had been more shocked by her action at the time, but she does remember Irene's climax being… epic. And it had bought her another month of The Woman's attention. The other outcome was a permanent mark, a little signpost that read "Miranda Was Here" that all following lovers would be forced to see and acknowledge. Petty? Perhaps. Satisfying? Fuck, yes.

The mark isn't something even the great Sherlock Holmes could have been expected to notice. Well, not unless he was using his mouth for more than the usual snide insults and intellectually superior bon mots. For a moment she tries to picture Sherlock going down on Irene but the image is always stopped short by an imaginary, utterly furious John Watson dragging him bodily away.

She's glad she donned the gloves, it makes the cool, lifeless skin beneath her fingertips that much less real somehow. It takes some effort to shift the leg and maneuver it sufficiently to see… nothing. Her gasp echoes through the morgue like a Greek chorus.

Ripping the gloves from her hands, she tosses them into a biohazard bag and flings herself through the double doors. She's panting like she just ran a marathon and her hands are bunched into tight little fists. It takes several minutes of staring out into the peaceful, snow-covered courtyard before she can force her fingers to unclench.

She wonders who that poor woman is… or was, and how she came to her fate. It's unlikely identifying her will be possible; Irene would have seen to an exchange of dental records, possibly even DNA. Perhaps Anthea will get lucky and come upon a missing person's report. Stranger things have happened.

More likely she'll be settled into a lovely little grave under the name Irene Adler and there she'll stay. She doesn't think Irene would opt for cremation, doesn't believe The Woman would like the thought of being reduced to ash and tiny bits of bone. Anthea's reasonably certain that if Irene had her way her body would lie in state in a glass coffin, adored by throngs like some head of state or pope… or goddess.

"…as you can imagine," her employer's voice precedes him into the corridor, "the dining table was never quite the same."

He and Molly stroll arm in arm, the latter tittering around her Styrofoam cup. Mr. Holmes has opted for coffee; clearly he's not planning to sleep any time soon. She can tell he already knows what she's discovered and is running the implications through hundreds of scenarios as he politely thanks Molly for her patience and wishes her a happy holiday. Molly waves cheerfully.

Taking Anthea's elbow once more he calmly guides her back to the elevator. "Won't my brother be surprised," Mycroft muses aloud, taking a sip of his coffee, then wincing dramatically and tossing it into the nearest bin. "It does make for a rather charming gift for the consulting detective who has everything, though. The only real question is Christmas or birthday…"

She steps into the elevator and draws a little away from him. If Mycroft takes offense she can see no sign of it. "What's she up to?"

"Several things I suspect; first avoiding both ourselves and Mr. Moriarty for the time being, second shoring up her resources both human and otherwise, and third waiting to see how much her 'death' effects Sherlock." Mycroft's lips quirk in a humorless smile. "In the meantime my brother holds her mobile but can't access the information contained within it. So, at the moment we are at something of an impasse." As they both stride out of the lift he adds, "On second thought, perhaps I won't tell Sherlock he's made a mistake. In some ways that seems an even more thoughtful gift. He'll be upset by Ms. Adler's death but he'll be absolutely _devastated_ to know you've bested him observationally. I'm not certain he'd ever entirely recover."

She can't help giggling, which she supposes was his intent, but she's reasonably sure it makes her a terrible person. "That's very thoughtful, sir."

"Poor John will suffer for it, though. He's in for weeks of overwrought violin compositions and general moping. I can't say I envy the good doctor."

She rather thinks John will be more put out by the late night relapse scares, but refrains from mentioning it. After all, she and her employer will be in the same boat regarding that. "What do we do now?"

"Continue our work as best we can and wait for Ms. Adler's next move. I don't believe we'll hear from her for quite some time. She'll want to give Sherlock ample opportunity to work out her password. I should say three to six months."

She thinks that sounds ominously close to Bond Air's takeoff date. If there's a silver lining to be found it's in the fact that at minimum they should have three months of time to prepare… barring unforeseen national crises, of course. She wonders if she could fit in a short holiday with Harry in the meantime.

"Lincolnshire is lovely this time of year," Mycroft says as if she'd just voiced her thoughts aloud. "Or so I hear. I'm certain Ms. Watson would enjoy a bit of time away."

Anthea hums in reply; she'll discuss it on the way back to Harry's place. She wonders if Mr. Holmes already knows what Harry's answer will be. He probably does. He seems oddly determined to prove himself omniscient today.

They make their way back to Harry's rather elderly Citroen and Mr. Holmes politely holds the door for as she slides inside. "Once again, my apologies for interrupting your evening. It was an unfortunate necessity, but highly enlightening.

"It was no problem at all, sir," Anthea demurs. Harry's expression clearly says she'd beg to differ.

"Have a lovely holiday." He shuts the door and casually strides over to his own car. She thinks he must be heading back to the office and then, possibly to the house. She hopes he intends to take a little time for himself… perhaps a nice glass of scotch in front of the fire, and utter isolation. Yes, she rather thinks that sounds like the perfect holiday for Mr. Holmes.

"So…" Harry gazes at her with blunt curiosity.

It's fair, more than fair given the events of the evening, so Anthea says, "It wasn't her."

"Oh," her girlfriend digests that for a moment then adds, "That's… good?"

It's appropriate that she put it in the form of a question because while there's a great deal of relief flooding Anthea's mind there is also a strange degree of disappointment. She thinks there might even be a hint of dread lurking in the back of her mind as well. Some part of her thinks Irene remaining among the living is decidedly not a thing to be celebrated. "Yes," she says quietly, because Harry deserves an answer and expects it to be precisely that. "Yes, it is."

Harry relaxes marginally. "That's… that's good then. I mean sad for the poor woman's family, of course."

Anthea makes a somewhat non-committal sound in reply. She rather wishes it were all as simple as it seems to be to Harry. A sudden thought hits her that she may just be experiencing some vague approximation of what it is to be her employer.

"How do you feel about Lincolnshire?" Anthea asks when the profundity of her realization makes the silence between them feel oppressive.

"In general?" Harry pauses to consider. "Positive I'd have to say. Heard it's quite pretty this time of year."

Anthea smiles as the other woman starts the car and points it toward home.


	25. 'Have ideas for extra curry sauce.  Don't wear anything too nice.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea has a not entirely unexpected, but decidedly unwelcome visitor.

A great deal can happen in five days and nine hours; in Anthea's case she takes a short but utterly decadent trip to Lincolnshire with her girlfriend, receives the BMW her employer's been teasing her about mercilessly as a holiday bonus, and has truly mind blowing sex, repeatedly. 

Harry may not be the most exciting or exotic lover she's ever known, but Anthea has already learned to appreciate the woman's attention to detail and dogged perseverance. Then there's Harry's stubborn insistence that a single orgasm is for quitters. They haven't made love in the new car yet, but if that hasn't been rectified by New Years Anthea's got her first resolution all worked out.

Life is good in a stable, quiet, contented sort of way, which means, of course, that it's all about to come crashing down around her ears. A great roaring asteroid with icy, reptilian eyes, for example, would not be entirely unexpected. Mr. Moriarty must be getting bored and frustrated with Irene's little games. He is, after all, far more prone to choose the sniper's bullet or ticking bomb to, say, a slow poison. His nature requires near instant gratification, at least on some fronts. He must be playing a very deep, very long game to forgo that this time.

Frankly that thought makes her profoundly nervous.

And so it is with mild dismay, but overall weary acceptance, that she greets the sight of Irene Adler stretched out on the sofa in her flat. The Woman is wrapped in one of Anthea's favorite robes, hair damp and loose, body artfully draped along the cushions. Her pose suggests both sexy indolence and an almost childlike innocence at once. It's rather too idyllic to be even remotely honest, and Anthea wonders how long it took Irene to create this little tableau. She also wonders why she had to choose her favorite robe. She'll never be able to wear it again without remembering this scene. Ah, yes.

Anthea sighs, because fuck she's tired and hungry and she wouldn't even be in the bloody flat if she didn't need to stash her revolver away before meeting Harry for dinner. She glares at Irene honestly pondering the merits of simply putting a bullet in that lovely forehead and being done with it. She has a man on speed dial who'd even Hoover up after removing the body. It could be a worrying sign that she seems to skip straight to homicide these days when problem solving.

Of course her hesitation gives Irene the chance to feign awakening from her little nap. Anthea kicks the door shut viciously behind her and stalks into the kitchen for the Hobnobs she's stashed away for snack-related emergencies. Mr. Holmes introduced her to the tasty chocolate-covered biscuits and she's quietly cursed him for it ever since. She pulls them from the shelf and lets the dark chocolate goodness melt in her mouth for a moment. Chocolate truly is a panacea because she feels almost human again when she turns to face Irene.

The latter is leaning nonchalantly against the kitchen doorframe, eyes half lidded and lips twitching with the urge to smirk. Anthea can see it's a hard fought battle when The Woman finally gives in. "Surprised?"

"Not the word I would have chosen, no."

Irene pouts charmingly. "Oh come now, that body was very good, you must admit." She pauses, eyes glittering, then adds, "It fooled the great Sherlock Holmes."

"I doubt that would be of great comfort to Ms. Priory."

The Woman shrugs, blithely unconcerned. "Was that the poor dear's name? Such a shame she met her end but you can't think I had anything to do with her demise. It was just a happy coincidence."

Anthea wishes, really, really wishes she could believe that. But nothing involving the light, cool, twisted touch of Jim Moriarty is left to chance. Nothing. Ms. Priory was murdered, horrifically, because she looked too much like Irene. She was a literal dead ringer.

Instead of pointing any of this out, Anthea nibbles on a second Hobnob and once again debates the merits of simply shooting Irene. The more she thinks about it the fewer objections she finds. This might possibly relate to low blood sugar and fatigue. She's determined to chalk it up to that.

"I assume you're here for a reason. It would be lovely if you'd just get on with it. I'm late for a dinner engagement."

Irene's cerulean eyes are locked on the digestives just as avariciously as they might do with a diamond pendant or a certain tall, elegant, bafflingly socially inept consulting detective. Anthea sighs and offers her one. She can't help watching Irene nibble it daintily, like some dowager at high tea. It's mesmerizing in a strange almost reptilian way.

Which, sadly, brings her back to Moriarty.

"Well?" she asks finally, because she really is both hungry and dreadfully late… not to mention utterly exhausted of these endless games within games.

"You really have become absurdly dull," Irene muses, leaning rather suggestively against the counter. The burgundy robe plunges and settles, showing an indecent but compelling swell of one perfect little breast. "I blame your employer; he's so dreadfully stuffy. Why couldn't you work for the younger Holmes? This all could've been so much simpler."

Anthea can't stifle the quick bark of laughter because that is a more absurd alternate universe scenario than one in which she sports a black goatee. She glances at the clock readout on the microwave and decides Irene has two minutes to reach the bloody point before she tosses the bint out the door sans robe. In the meantime she pulls out her mobile and texts Harry. 'Running late, work-related. Order me a Chicken Tikka Masala and a mango lassi.'

The response is almost immediate. 'Will do. Have ideas for extra curry sauce. Don't wear anything too nice.'

She can't stop the shudder that runs through her body at that, nor the way her mind conjures up several utterly wicked scenarios regarding curry sauce and her own nearly naked body. Maybe she'll bump Irene's time down to thirty seconds.

"Not interrupting, am I?" Irene's voice is subtly peevish beneath its veneer of amused condescension.

"As I said earlier, yes, you are. Now please just tell me what you want."

"Dangerous question that." Irene's teeth gleam in the fluorescent glow of the kitchen. "But as you're in such a hurry I'll get straight to the point. I need my mobile back."

Anthea sighs, because really, that's what this is all about? "So go and get it."

"It's not that simple."

"No, of course it isn't," Anthea breathes and stashes her phone away in her jacket pocket. "If you think I'm going to fetch it for you…"

"Not exactly what I had in mind, unless you happen to know where Sherlock," Irene pauses just a second too long on his name, almost like she's savoring the taste of it, "keeps it. But I don't think you do."

Anthea blanks her face because no, she doesn't, but she'd bet her next two paychecks that she could walk into her employer's office and find out in under a minute. Irene really doesn't need to know that, though. There is something deep within her that growls in vicious, feral way at the very thought of Irene turning her attentions towards Mycroft. Her trigger finger twitches slightly.

Finally she says, "So if you can't get it and I don't know where it is, why come to me?"

"Because you," Irene breathes, moving into Anthea's personal space as if she owned the lease on it, "are rather adept at luring a certain someone who does know where it's kept into strange cars any time you like."

"John?" she blurts, taking a half step back into the gas range. The knobs bite into her hip.

"Exactly. Just bring Dr. Watson to me for a little chat. I'm sure I can convince him it's in everyone's best interests to bring me the mobile and leave Sherlock none the wiser."

Anthea just stares at her for several seconds. There is no way on God's green Earth that the phrase "none the wiser" has or ever could apply to Sherlock Holmes. Is Irene really that delusional or merely playing a deeper game than Anthea can currently suss out? She leans even further into the range, the knobs obligingly dig into her side and the pain, as always, brings her back into sharp focus. "You really believe John will do that?"

Irene grins almost disarmingly and traces Anthea's collarbone with one pale finger. "I can be very persuasive."

That, at least, is a simple truth. It makes for a lovely change. 

What Anthea can't quite work out is why The Woman is blithely disregarding the depths of John's loyalty and pragmatism. Convenience? Wishful thinking? Perhaps it's simply that Irene doesn't know John's already killed a man for Sherlock and would happily do so again without a second thought.

What's more, she's failed to see how attached Sherlock is to John. Irene thinks she can seduce the detective away from his work and city, but she doesn't even realize that the real impediment to her plans is a diminutive ex-army surgeon with a psychosomatic limp and bloody good aim. This whole situation is quickly descending into farce… or tragedy.

Still, if Anthea collects and delivers John at least she knows he won't end up as an unidentified body at St. Bart's… or wired to a bomb. "Send me the location and time."

Irene's eyelids dip with satisfaction. "Thank you. If there's anything I can do to repay you…"

There are several things Anthea can think of just off the top of her head, including Irene simply buggering off to the far ends of the Earth for no less than a decade. Alas, she understands the likelihood of that request being fulfilled. Instead she says, "You can get dressed and lock up when you leave."

Irene actually looks a bit startled as Anthea reaches over to close the front of the robe, collects her handbag and walks out of the flat.


	26. "I've always been a great believer in tearing off a plaster quickly."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea sets her employer's latest scheme into motion with her usual flair.

"Hire a car," he says abruptly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk. It's probably some complicated concerto he whipped up on the spot. She wonders vaguely what this new musical bent indicates. Perhaps simply that he's been making himself reacquainted with the Steinway at Sherringford House over the holidays. "Make certain it's black and European but not a Mercedes."

"Sir?"

"Have it wait just outside 221B for no less than a quarter of an hour prior to abducting Dr. Watson. Under normal circumstances it wouldn't require quite so much time but Sherlock isn't himself at the moment, best to over do it slightly."

"You want your brother to know his flatmate is being abducted under false pretenses?"

Mycroft's lips quirk and his fingers continue their staccato tapping. "I've always been a great believer in tearing off a plaster quickly. Better that than leaving the time and place of his discovery in Ms. Adler's hands, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose so," she acknowledges, a little cautiously. In theory her employer is quite correct, but this is Sherlock they're talking about and he can be astonishingly fragile on occasion. 

"And I'd prefer if you didn't do the honors on this particular occasion." Her employer leans back in his chair and smiles languorously; he looks like nothing so much as a sun-contented feline. "Best not to associate yourself with Ms. Adler, at least where my brother and Dr. Watson are involved." He waves one long-fingered hand as if conducting some invisible orchestra rather than a single, somewhat puzzled assistant. "Someone who looks a bit like you, enough to attract the good doctor, but sufficiently different to raise Sherlock's hackles."

Anthea sighs. It's going to be one of _those_ weeks.

"Anything else?"

He considers the question carefully, as he does all questions, then waves it away like chalk from a blackboard. "I shouldn't think so. No need to monitor the meeting, we know what she wants and how John will respond. Our driver will ensure Dr. Watson's safety if, let us say, Sherlock should have difficulty procuring a cab. Where are they meeting?"

"Battersea Power Station."

"How dreadfully melodramatic." As if, Anthea thinks with some amusement, he was really one to talk. "Well," he concedes airily, "I suppose she is a dominatrix."

"Sir, couldn't we just…" she blurts out before catching herself.

"Just what, my dear?"

Anthea chews her lip for a few seconds before answering. "We know what's on that mobile. Or at least part of what's on it, couldn't we just go and fetch it? Why are we taking the risk? We could end this today with minimal effort."

"That is certainly true, but we must take into consideration the possibility that our Ms. Adler may have memorized the message. If so, the mobile becomes incidental and by retrieving it we press her to take more, shall we say, drastic measures. She seems to be content to continue to play her little game with Sherlock, at least for the time being. I should very much like to see her cards." He pauses and smiles dazzlingly, "I expect she has a fascinating hand."

Anthea can't help rolling her eyes.

"I'm forced to wonder what else that little device might contain. What if our sad little email gone astray is actually one of the most innocuous bits of information residing on it? What if something on it could even lead us back to Mr. Moriarty's doorstep? I see," he pauses to lean forward, his eyes catching hers like a snare, "far too many variables at present to believe that destroying the phone or ending the game prematurely by removing it from play would be our best option. Of course should any of these variables change and shift…" Mycroft steeples his fingers and rests the tips against his chin thoughtfully. "Ms. Adler will not end the day with the mobile; it will remain in Sherlock's admittedly haphazard keeping. Stalemate."

She can't really refute his logic, has never been able to really, but her instincts tell her that the phone is more trouble than it's worth. Mr. Holmes is a very conservative gambler under most circumstances, save one-- anything to do with his brother. She suspects part of his reluctance to retrieve the phone has to do with removing Sherlock's favorite new toy.

"If you say so, sir." She tries hard not to sound dubious, but she's never been very skilled at lying. Her mother might argue the point, has done in the past to be sure, but then her mother has never really known or understood her.

Mr. Holmes pats her hand comfortingly. "It will all turn out for the best, I assure you."

Her employer, she remembers a little belatedly, is a magnificent liar.

\--

Amanda comes to her via a somewhat circuitous route that starts with a phone call to an MI5 operative and winds its way through a variety of secret, top secret and too secret to acknowledge exist organizations. She is precisely what they need, a petite, sleekly dressed, coy young woman who's acted as a honey pot so often she even smells sweet. Anthea sees calm poise mixed with just a hint of flirtatious charm. Amanda, or Mandy as she prefers to be called, seems to think this will be the easiest job she's ever taken on. Mandy's quite right about that.

"You just want me to take him to Battersea Station then?"

"Yes." God they even sound alike. They could be long lost sisters or the most narcissistic couple on the planet. "Bring him there, sidestep any questions he might pose but encourage his assumptions. He'll believe he's meeting my employer, Mr. Holmes. Expect him to be a bit annoyed by that, but not the slightest bit intimidated. When the meeting ends you'll bring him back to 221B. He will probably be even more annoyed, and he will make several very different assumptions about who employed you. Encourage those as well."

Many smiles lopsidedly as if only half amused by her instructions. "And that's really it?"

"That's really it."

The operative shrugs as if to say, 'Who am I to argue about an easy paycheck' and stands to go. "Very well. Should I take any precautions not to be seen?"

"Quite the contrary," Anthea quips, rising as well. "You're to be certain you are seen. If the car isn't trailed by a cab within five minutes I shall be terribly disappointed."

"Jealous girlfriend?"

Anthea considers that for a moment. "Of a sort," she agrees amiably then walks Mandy to the door and out into the front office. "It was a pleasure meeting you." They shake hands and her sex kitten doppelgänger sways from the office in a leisurely, almost hypnotic way.

That bit of business settled, she returns to her own desk with a small relieved sigh. She's occasionally forced to make use of Mr. Holmes' office for meetings they would prefer their eavesdroppers not hear, but it always makes her feel so… diminished to sit behind his enormous desk. It isn't just the size, of course-- every piece of furniture in Mr. Holmes' sanctum murmurs quietly of power and authority too vast for the likes of her. There's a weight to sitting in his chair that inevitably leaves her all but limp with exhaustion.

She's honest enough with herself to realize she is not, could never be destined for a throne. Her place is beside it. There's no shame in acknowledging that; in fact it feels almost liberating.

Texting Sixto is a bit of an afterthought. She wants him to act as driver for this little escapade. She's not expecting trouble necessarily, but a bit of insurance never comes amiss. If either Irene or Moriarty are considering making off with John she's determined to make their task as difficult as possible.

'Still have your license?' she sends.

'Which one?' is his quick reply.

'The driving one.'

'Yep.'

She smiles and types, 'Need you to drive my double to 221B then Battersea and back again tomorrow, 2pm.'

'New Years Eve?' She can almost hear the whine in his voice.

'No rest for the wicked.'

'I don't have to grab the Brat, do I?'

'No, you're collecting the nice one.'

'Oh all right then.' There's a slight pause, then, 'Didn't know you had a double. Is she single? And straight?'

"Above your pay grade, my friend.'

'M&S?'

'Harrod's, definitely,' she corrects him automatically, almost able to hear his long, slow whistle in return.

'I'll just enjoy the view then. What's this all about?'

'Adler.'

'Damn.' There's another brief pause. 'So she's not dead then. This is all getting a bit too James Bond for my taste.'

'Wheels within wheels,' she agrees. 'Arrive for Ms. Marks at 1:30, M.H. wants you out in front of Baker St. by quarter 'til. Make a spectacle of yourself, but not too much of a spectacle. Will have a special car waiting for you.'

'Wheels within fucking wheels… right, tomorrow it is.'

She sighs, deletes the text conversation and relaxes for the first time all day. That's it, then. Everything is in place, and all that remains will be to monitor the CCTV feeds during the operation. She begins to think Mandy has a point after all; it does seems a bit too easy.


	27. "And in case my meaning remains somewhat obscure…this country belongs to me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea uncovers a double agent, Mycroft speech-ifies and Anthea pretends not to pay attention.

Anthea has come to understand that her main task in life is to create the bureaucratic, and occasionally espionage, versions of Rube Goldberg machines. In general the goals that she and her employer desire to achieve tend to be quite simple, but the means to those ends are always ridiculously convoluted. Instead of dominoes she has a small army of agents, provocateurs and specialists at her beck and call. She has access to a fleet of vehicles, safe houses and detention centers in lieu of mechanical toys and mousetraps. Her own peculiar version of a Rube Goldberg machine relies less on a struck match or a rolling marble than it does a Ruger or a sniper rifle to be sure, but the analogy still holds true.

Of course the whole thing relies on people; her own, the target, and the great milling hordes of London proper. This, she thinks, is rather like setting one's Rube Goldberg machine up in a primary school classroom. She and Mr. Holmes both understand this and do everything in their not inconsiderable power to mitigate the inevitable effects of the random, chaotic public.

She'd never truly understood chaos theory until she began doing the serious work that her employer has made his own governmental domain. Now the start of a new "project" has her inevitably dreaming of butterflies and hurricanes. Occasionally her dreams are less direct and she simply spends one night after another mentally filling sand bags.

So it isn't a total shock to her when at first the dominoes she's lined up fall with a neat little plink, plink, plink only to be knocked out of their orderly lines by a profoundly annoying American CIA agent.

Mandy uses just the right combination of come hither flirtation and cool detachment to hook John like a hungry salmon. It takes almost no visible effort on her part to reel him into the car. They pull away from the curb smoothly and not ten seconds later Sherlock is flying out the door and hailing a cab. He scans the street until he spots their car then bends down to tell the cabbie to follow. He pauses just long enough to flip off the nearest CCTV camera before darting inside.

Anthea smiles in spite of herself. Everything is moving along just as it should, and she can afford to be gracious. This pleasant, relaxed condescension lasts approximately two minutes.

As she's just about to call up the cameras en route to Battersea, a movement on Baker Street catches her attention. A lumbering black SUV squats in front of 221B and suddenly all she can hear is howling wind and the harsh patter of storm-driven rain in her mind. When Agent Neilson exits the back with two bulky looking thugs she realizes she hasn't nearly enough sand bags to halt the damage this time.

She automatically scrambles a response team of her own, but orders them to observe the situation and not to interfere unless there's a strong possibility that one of the residents or a nearby civilian is in direct danger. It's not that she's worried about maintaining good relations with the CIA; she has no doubt that Mr. Holmes could smooth over the most ruffled feathers in Washington should he need to. But she is concerned that sending a team in may do more harm than good and end up getting either her people or the CIA's agents killed. And then there's poor Mrs. Hudson to consider.

And ultimately there is just the slightest chance that Neilson might just bumble onto Irene's mobile. It's unlikely as hell, as the man's incompetence throughout this project borders on legendary, but it's possible. If he does find it she sincerely hopes he smashes the damned thing into roughly a million tiny pieces. She'd even consider sending him a lovely thank you card.

The question is, what is he doing there? Well, beyond the obvious, of course, but why this particular day? Has he simply been waiting for Sherlock to leave? If so neither the detective nor any of her team has been aware of his presence. She dismisses the idea. Dumb luck and coincidence follow it into her mental waste bin. That leaves only one real possibility; someone alerted him that Sherlock would be going out today and exactly when. One of their own people, it has to be-- there is no other realistic answer.

Mandy is the obvious choice of course, hopefully the only choice, and if so she will never get another chance to ruin an operation like this one. However, as much as Anthea would like to use Occam's Razor in this case, something niggles at the back of her mind. At Irene's home the CIA team had also arrived at precisely the same time that Sherlock had discovered the location of the mobile. Certainly they'd been monitoring the house, and she'd originally chalked the whole thing up to the efficiency and talent of the team. Their subsequent handling of Sherlock, John and Irene, however, had been heavy-handed, brutish and clumsy. Everything she's seen of Neilson and his people since has served to lower her opinion of them to just above a pack of unruly, barely sober footie fans.

So how to account for Neilson's occasional bouts of extreme competence? She's already binned luck, and poor Mandy certainly hadn't been around at the time of the break in at the house. Anthea had, of course, but she's bloody sure she didn't tell him, which only leaves…

Anthea picks up her phone and texts her employer one word, 'Sixto.'

'Oh dear,' is his less than reassuring reply.

\--

"Had I been consulted," Mycroft's tone is bored as he addresses his perfectly manicured fingernails, "I would have pointed out that threatening Sherlock's landlady would be antithetical to achieving your goals."

What remains of Agent Neilson after approximately three trips from the second storey window of 221B to the garbage tip below, glares back at him. He is sporting several casts, at least five visible bandages and innumerable stitches. The chart mentioned a few missing teeth and a mild concussion as well. Anthea can't help thinking he got off rather lightly, all things considered.

"I don't know what you're playing at, Holmes," Neilson grits out, then stumbles to a halt as Mycroft rests one hand almost casually on the agent's splinted fingers.

"I should also like to point out that the only reason you remain in this country at the moment is that I hesitate to invest the resources required for a trans-Atlantic medical flight. Budgets being what they are… you understand."

"How do you know he hasn't cracked it yet? How do you know he hasn't told that bitch everything?"

"Because if he had I would know. In all likelihood you would know. Very probably random people he passed on the streets would also know. My brother has many traits but I can assure you that 'subtlety' and 'humility' are not among them."

"So why don't we just grab the phone and then you can crack the password, we get the information we need and that dominatrix bitch can twist in the wind."

Mycroft purses his lips and seems loath to reply. Finally he sighs and says, "I doubt I'd have any better luck than my brother. In this particular case I believe his… proximity to Ms. Adler may well be the key. At any rate I'm quite comfortable with the mobile remaining precisely where it is for the moment. Sherlock is absorbed, Adler is neutralized and our plans continue unabated."

Mr. Holmes clearly thinks that is the logical end to their conversation; Neilson just as clearly disagrees. "You're shitting me."

With a wince, Mr. Holmes mutters, "Language, please."

"Someone had to act. You sure as shit weren't going to and you were endangering the entire project to keep your fruitcake of a brother entertained. It's a goddamn travesty, and if you think I'm just going to slink back to D.C. without raising holy hell with your superiors..."

"Forgive me for interrupting your rather impassioned speech but I feel you have, yet again, failed to fully grasp the complexities of the situation. Please allow me to enlighten you." With a brief, almost apologetic smile, Mr. Holmes reaches over to the I.V. stand and presses a button that halts the flow of morphine to the patient. "Perhaps it's the drugs, they do tend to muddle one, don't they?"

Neilson goes from righteous indignation to mild panic as the catheter alarm pings softly for attention. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Ah, now there's the crux of it, what do I think I'm doing? Isn't it rather obvious?" Mycroft presses several more buttons, leading Anthea to wonder if he's managed to obtain a medical degree in his miniscule spare time. The catheter quiets with a final satisfied chirp and he turns his attention back to Neilson. "I'm doing precisely what I wish to do, Agent Neilson. Precisely what I wish. Oh, you may press that call button if you'd like. No? Well, perhaps your mind is beginning to clear after all. Excellent, that will make this much simpler." Her employer pulls one of the uncomfortable looking chairs closer to the bed and takes a seat, his hand never leaves Neilson's. "My brother, prone to hyperbole though he may be, is not incorrect when he refers to me as the British government. On this enchanted isle of ours I am both the alpha and the omega."

"Bullshit!" Neilson is edging quickly past mild panic and has gone even paler. Sweat is collecting on his forehead and upper lip. His eyes keep sliding over to Anthea, reluctant but desperate. She turns her attention back to her mobile.

"Honestly your language is just appalling. But no matter. You will find that making phone calls to those you perceive to be my superiors will be roughly as effective as pushing that call button you hold." Mycroft pats the agent's hand affectionately. "I don't expect you to take my word for it, of course, you seem decidedly disinclined to listen to anything I might have to say. But I will try just once more to make something as clear as I possibly can. You were injured today because you harmed someone that belongs to my brother. We Holmeses may not be the most emotional or empathic creatures but we protect what's ours. And in case my meaning remains somewhat obscure… this country belongs to _me_."

Neilson's breath is coming in fits and starts and he's sweating in earnest. "You're insane!"

"That's an erroneous, though not entirely atypical conclusion," Mr. Holmes agrees, his eyes sliding down the length of the prone agent's body. "I should like to point out that the damage Sherlock did to you, while painful, was mostly cosmetic. The damage I will do to you should you interfere with another of my plans will not be."

Neilson flinches and his heart rate monitor begins to wail rather mournfully.

"Oh now, now there's no need for all that. We're all friends here." Mycroft's voice is genial, the tone Anthea has privately dubbed 'favorite uncle'. "As soon as your doctors release you as fit to travel we'll have you right back home. And just to see to it that you have no difficulties during your trip I'll be sending Mr. Sixto with you. After all, you two do get on rather well, don't you?"

Neilson begins to squirm and make the most disagreeable mewling noise. Mr. Holmes' expression is almost comical in its exaggerated concern for the agent's well being. "Now that we're both clear where we stand, so to speak, I think we can turn this back on." He reaches over and taps several buttons until the flow of morphine winds its way through the tubing once more. "You'll feel much better soon, I'm sure. Please do convey my best to you superiors and let them know I'm willing to treat your actions as an aberration. I see no reason why our two organizations can't have a perfectly cordial working relationship in the future."

As her employer smoothly stands Anthea tucks her mobile away. It was an effective blind to allow her to observe everything without being forced to meet Neilson's eyes. She still thinks he's a misogynistic prick with a massive inferiority complex and very probably a profoundly fucked up relationship with his mother… but she's not particularly interested in watching him actively suffer.

"I wish you a very speedy recovery, Agent Neilson, and an uneventful trip home. I don't expect we'll be seeing one another again." Is there a hint of warning in the last bit? Probably. Will Neilson recognize it and keep it his side of the Atlantic? Anthea sincerely hopes so.

When the American doesn't respond she begins to think he might not be so utterly hopeless.

As they walk briskly back to the lift Mr. Holmes actually mutters rather prissily under his breath, "Sherlock would have lost interest in a few months time and then I'd simply need to surreptitiously lay out a few absurd clues about giant Sumatran rats or Sussex vampires or some equally ridiculous nonsense and he'd have forgotten all about this Adler business."

She can't help giving him a cheeky grin. "Vampires? Really?"

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "When he was fifteen I created rather convincing evidence that the world was likely to be completely overrun by oysters within the year. It kept him busy for weeks. Some of the loveliest days of my entire life."


	28. 'He's a mad genius, our Guv, but infallible he's not.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea forgives but doesn't forget.
> 
> Sorry this one's a bit short, had some surgery this week and my ability to sit at the computer for any length of time is somewhat compromised.

Agent Neilson boarded Virgin Airlines flight 404 from Heathrow Airport precisely four weeks after his run-in with Sherlock. He had apparently made at least one phone call to the Prime Minister. Anthea knows this because the Minister phoned to apologize to Mr. Holmes. Her employer had, of course, smiled and waved off any concerns on the man's part. He seemed more amused than upset or offended.

And so Sixto is gone too. While part of her wants to be glad that a traitor has been ousted, the bulk of her reaction on the subject is more… morose. She still likes Sixto, double agent or not, and she's discovered that in some ways he's the best friend she's got. Possibly her only real friend. That is depressing on a variety of levels, and worse still, she can't even discuss it with Harry.

This may be why Harry has, of late, seemed to renew her flagging obsession with alcohol. Anthea's seen the vodka bottles and cans of lager that Harry believes she's cleverly hidden out of sight. Unfortunately for her Anthea is practiced at snooping for illicit snacks in her employer's office and his skills far surpass Harry's.

They enter into a period of time where very little is said to one another in lieu of lies. The sex is still brilliant, and there are days when the silence between them seems almost comfortable again. Still, Anthea anxiously watches her employer for some indication that Harry is about to leave her. It's absurdly passive-aggressive and stupidly indirect but she can't seem to help herself.

If Mr. Holmes notices… well, of course he notices, he simply chooses to remain silent on the subject. Part of her almost wishes he would speak, would tell her what to do and say to fix this. A small, jealous little voice points out snidely that he'd do so for Sherlock, but her rational mind thinks no, he probably wouldn't. Mycroft would want to tell him what to do in a foundering relationship, would in fact feel nearly compelled to at least voice an opinion or two, but this is one area in which he has little (she suspects) or no experience.

Her mobile vibrates as they ride back from 10 Downing Street to their dinner meeting in the East End. She pulls it out and notes sourly that it's another text from the agent formerly known as Sixto. He's calling himself Howards these days, Reg Howards, it seems such a ridiculously mundane name for someone so naturally and effortlessly unique.

The words are blithe and chipper, as if he were simply off on another mission, rather than living in exile somewhere across the Atlantic. The normality of it leaves her with the intense desire to roll down the window and chuck the mobile out. She doesn't for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that doing so would feel rather akin to parting with a major internal organ once the initial visceral thrill wore off.

She'll ignore him and his whimsical commentaries on life in the United States. She will not speak to the traitorous creep no matter how much she might wish she could. She will, in fact, block his number. First thing tomorrow. She'll set a reminder.

Mycroft's slow drawl startles her momentarily, "Stop torturing the boy and, might I add, yourself."

Her employer's eyes are closed, his head resting against the edge of the door. He rolls his head slightly on the glass, enjoying the cool caress of the condensation. He's exhausted after a week of budgetary battles, probably dangling over the chasm of yet another of his migraines. Perhaps that's why he's being so uncharacteristically direct. "Sir?"

"Mr. Sixto was simply following his conscience, we cannot fault him for that, can we?" Mr. Holmes mouths the word "conscience" almost hesitantly, like a rock climber feeling his way to the next foothold. He understands the word intellectually and can appreciate Sixto's decisions on that level, but clearly can't empathize. For a Holmes, an intellectual understanding of any subject would seem to be sufficient.

"No," she answers finally, her own footing feels much more certain. If Sixto betrayed them because of his beliefs, because his morality required it, she can understand and forgive. She'd honestly rather hoped that was the explanation rather than some tawdry paycheck, but wouldn't have believed it if anyone but Mr. Holmes had told her.

She sighs and reads the message. 'Still hate me?'

Her fingers start tapping a reply before she's even really given it any thought. 'No, I don't hate you. But you are a right prick.'

'Yeah,' he replies, 'sorry.'

Frowning, she types the one word she must give voice to, in a manner of speaking anyway. 'Why?'

'Couldn't watch the Guv put his own neck on the chop block for the Brat. Neilson was a moron but I hoped he'd get the job done.'

She digests that. It is utterly plausible and frankly something she'd considered herself on more than one occasion. 'You should have trusted Mr. Holmes.' The "…and me" is implied, of course.

There's a pause as Sixto formulates his reply. 'I lost faith, had to think for myself. Made the wrong call.'

Well at least he understands that. 'Yeah you did.'

'Good to know he's still got you. You'll look after him, yeah?'

'Of course.' She wonders if he can almost hear the slightly offended huff in her reply. Good lord what does he think she does every day?

'Just don't be afraid to think for yourself sometimes too. He's a mad genius, our Guv, but infallible he's not.'

'Heretic.' She types with a vaguely indulgent smile.

'TTYL?'

'I hate chat speak.' Texting is no excuse for infantile spelling, poor grammar and inane acronyms as far as she's concerned. 'But yeah, all right.'

She slips the phone back into her handbag and does her best to ignore the smug satisfaction on Mr. Holmes' weary face.


	29. "Sherlock says you're shagging my sister."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea gets the shovel talk.

"Sherlock says you're shagging my sister."

So, Anthea thinks, this is what a heart attack feels like.

"Well, he actually used the word 'copulating', but I'm pretty sure he was raised by a character from a Dickens novel so I went with the more modern vernacular." John chews a piece of truly excellent sour-dough bread and watches her as if he's waiting for her to make a break for the door or perhaps a weapon. His expression isn't outright antagonistic, more thoughtful than homicidal, so that's something.

"I see." It seems an innocuous enough response, though she knows John won't be the slightest bit satisfied by it.

"He also said Harry's cut back on the drinking. I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that the two are somehow connected." John pauses to chew again. "Would that be a fair assumption?"

She stabs at her eggplant parmigiana and considers her words carefully. "I would say that Occam's Razor applies to this situation, yes."

It's the truth, at least as far as she's aware. Harry has her good days and her bad ones, when their relationship is on stable ground the good tend to outnumber the bad. At the moment things are very good and the trips to the pub have all but petered out. Of course a relapse is only ever one troubling phone call from Clara away. 

Not that Clara had the first thing to do with the last "episode", Anthea can admit in the privacy of her own thoughts. 

John's twirling his angel hair pasta around his fork with a sort of practiced ease that speaks to a childhood holiday the family had shared in Florence. Harry still waxes poetic about the city's narrow, cobblestoned streets and quaint shops. Her descriptions of the Ponte Vecchio and Duomo border on the religious, a sort of ecstatic glow suffuses Harry's face in those moments. Anthea has already decided the very next time she has more than a long weekend to herself, she's stealing Harry away for an extended stay in that picturesque city.

"Right. So I could give you what is generally referred to as the 'Shovel Talk', but I'm reasonably sure you're already aware that I own a revolver and I'm a… well, a damn fine shot if I do say so myself. Also my flatmate would be downright thrilled to help me dispose of your body. Seriously, he's already given it some thought after he found the last round of bugs you planted. At least we assumed it was you. It was you, right?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny that particular accusation," she sing-songs in reply and gives her breadstick an authoritative snap. "Must say, I'm wondering whether Mycroft ever gave you the 'Shovel Talk'."

She likes the variety of colors his face becomes in rapid succession. It settles into a rather rosy hue and a disgruntled expression. "Like your lot don't know every woman I've slept with in the past year and a half."

Anthea snorts and takes a bite of her eggplant.

"Fine, every woman I've ever slept with, whatever, the point is that you know bloody well I'm straight and am not, allow me to repeat that," he leans over the table, speaking into the small centerpiece of plastic daisies, "for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, _not_ shagging Sherlock Holmes!"

Anthea leans over the table to speak into the sad little faux floral display and adds, "Yet."

John face palms and then rubs his eyes with weary exasperation. "Let me guess, your employer has some sort of insanely complicated contingency plan in place to do away with anyone who breaks his little brother's heart."

"Oh no," she corrects him with a brief, brilliant smile, "nothing so open-ended. Mr. Holmes much prefers specificity. We have several plans on file depending upon the nature of the relationship between you two at the time of the break up and the cause of said break up."

"You're… that's, um, that's a joke, right?" 

"Of course, John." Her tone says precisely the opposite.

"So when were you planning to put me out of my misery?" he asks, collapsing back in his seat and just gazing at her. "I mean I made a right ass out of myself chasing after you like a lovesick school boy and the whole time you were… you know…"

"For the ladies?"

He chuckles. "I… suppose that's one way to put it."

"I dunno," she answers honestly, "your infatuation had its uses and I must admit it was rather flattering too."

The Watsons, Anthea realizes, are the most adorable blushers on the planet.

"Were you and Harry ever planning to clue me in on your relationship?"

"I'm certain it would've come out eventually. Preferably before the first awkward family dinner." She lets her fork hover over her plate uncomfortably for a few seconds. "We're still… it's early days yet, John. I suppose we weren't sure there was anything to tell you yet."

"Uh-huh." He nods sagely and crosses his arms over his chest. "And it wouldn't have anything to do with being worried about my reaction?"

"Maybe." She shrugs slightly feeling suddenly very awkward and foolish. When did she lose the upper hand with John Watson? She's always felt so calm and certain around him and now… now she's all but squirming in her seat and ducking her head like a naughty child. 

"I've got to admit I'm of two minds about the whole situation. Most of me is thrilled that Harry's met someone who's brilliant and gorgeous and great fun." He's smiling at her when he says this and she can't help beaming in return. "Of course there might be just the teeniest bit of jealousy mixed up in there somewhere, but…" John takes a deep breath and gazes out of the small, velvet-curtained window to the busy, rain soaked street. "But I don't like the idea of Harry getting dragged into, you know, all of… this…"

"This?"

"You know," he says, waving a hand between the two of them, then around the restaurant in general, " _this_. We're here clandestinely meeting to discuss the dominatrix who's obsessed with my flatmate, the psycho killer who strapped explosives to my chest last year and occasionally to compare notes over who've we've shot recently. That _'this'_."

She purses her lips and takes a sip of the mediocre red wine that she's spent most of the meal spurning. It's profoundly unsatisfying but still fortifying in its own meager way. "John, I can assure you Harry's never been blown up, stalked by a dominatrix or even shot at, and I have no intention of dragging her into any of that. I promise you the most exciting thing she's been exposed to recently was a little naughtiness in the back seat of my BMW."

"Probably could've done without that mental image."

"Business is business and pleasure is pleasure," Anthea quips and takes another sip of the less than inspirational wine.

"And you never confuse the two?" John replies sagely. "Impressive."

"I try never to say never in my line of work." Her lips quirk and his twitch despite the serious air he is attempting to cultivate. "But I've been quite successful so far. I don't ask you to trust me blindly; I know that's not exactly an element of our relationship, but you can trust that should I fail to keep Harry away from 'all this', Sherlock will take great delight in telling you all about it before Harry or I even get the chance to."

"I have to admit I find that simultaneously comforting and terrifying."

She laughs and folds her napkin neatly on the table. "I know precisely what you mean. I'm just grateful that Mycroft is disinclined to shove his conclusions in my face on a daily basis."

"Lucky you," John sighs, crumpling his own napkin and tossing it beside his empty plate. "I swear sometimes I don't know why I put up with Sherlock."

'Yes you do,' she thinks, but aloud she says, "I imagine he has his good points to balance out the annoying ones."

"Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you?" He runs a hand over his eyes as if washing away a day's worth of frustration with his flatmate. He peers outside again and asks, "Is it my imagination or has that cab been sitting across the street during our entire meal?"

Anthea wondered if he would notice; a few months ago he might not, but observation and deduction are as contagious as a nasty virus and he lives with patient zero. She gathers her handbag and gives the waiter her black credit card. It is a business dinner after all. "Yes it has. Apparently Sherlock wanted to see if we'd come to blows. Bet he's ever so disappointed."

John shifts gear from weary amusement to ire like a well-tuned Porsche. "I'll kill him."

"Probably shouldn't tell me that as I'm contractually obligated to keep him alive at present." Sadly that is literally true; she knows because she took a magnifying glass to her latest HR paperwork. She signs the credit card bill and thanks the waiter for his exemplary service. It always pays to be polite to wait staff. "Also he's been reading your lips the entire time so you've just warned him as well."

"I suddenly feel a lot less guilty about finishing off all the biscuits this morning." John stands and pulls her chair out. They slide into their respective jackets as they head calmly to the door. "Oh, almost forgot to ask, have you heard from… Her?"

There is only one 'Her' that makes John's lip curl with derision and his shoulders tense like he's staring down the barrel of his revolver about the pull the trigger. Anthea smiles and replies, "Bolivia in the company of a profoundly corrupt local official. You shouldn't need to worry about her dropping round for a while."

"Thanks." He peers at the drizzle, shrugs and says, "Might as well get a ride back with Sherlock, I suppose. G'night."

She watches him jog across the street and duck into the warm waiting cab. Waving flirtatiously at Sherlock she trots over to her BMW, sliding gratefully into its glove-like leather interior with a sigh. Before she twists the key to bring the motor purring to life she sees a small slip of paper wedged under the driver's side windshield wiper.

Leaning forward she notes that the paper is quite sodden except for the thin strip protected by the blade. She reads the words, "M- will never find the body. Fair warning. –SH"


	30. "Puppies and orphans it is."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea and Sixto re-establish their relationship and she gets a lovely surprise.

A bomb nearly, very nearly, goes off on a double decker bus full of burbling tourists clutching cameras and travel guides. Fortunately the intelligence gathered from the code Mr. Holmes broke months earlier narrowly prevents the tragedy. He'd seemed loath to "waste" (his word choice there) the information on the lives of some predominantly annoying foreigners but had finally admitted to the regrettable necessity of sending them home intact. Or he'd been bulled into recognizing that necessity by several panicked bureaucrats and Anthea's calmer, more rational pleas. He can't really hold it against her as she's been his de facto conscience for ages now.

There is nothing outwardly elegant about the bomb or its placement. There is no reason to believe it is anything more than yet another terrorist group looking to sow the seeds of fear and mayhem among the infidels. Still, Mr. Holmes seems almost determined to find Moriarty's fingerprints on the tragedy.

For Anthea this means a few late nights at the office as well as the low level anxiety that Harry will turn to the companionship of Tanqueray in her absence. Some small part of her is beginning to resent this insidious, utterly neurotic belief that her company is all that keeps Harry from an inevitable downward spiral. It's a level of responsibility that she sometimes wishes she could simply escape. There are already too many lives in her well-manicured hands as it is.

She hates herself for feeling that way, for resenting Harry's addiction almost more than she loves the woman sometimes. And yes, she's acknowledged, at least in the privacy of her own thoughts, that she does love Harry. Still, she wonders if John ever feels that low simmering anger deep down in his gut on a Danger Night… wonders how he feels to have traded an addicted sibling for an addicted flatmate. She'd ask him if it wasn't in reference to his sister. As it is she occasionally indulges in whingeing at Sixto via Skype.

He's somewhere in Afghanistan now and has dyed his hair a bland color best described as "mud in tire treads". He's also grown out the saddest excuse for a beard she's likely ever seen. It dangles from his chin like a limp stalactite, forlorn and out of place. With his now sun-darkened skin he looks alarmingly alien to her. Thankfully his voice is unchanged, as are his mannerisms. The lazy slouch he adopts whenever he appears on the webcam makes her relax almost immediately.

"So break up with her if it bothers you so much," he grumbles with a weary eye roll. His lanky body fills most of the screen but she can see the rippling movements of the canvas walls behind him. He's being moved again, which explains his current testiness rather nicely.

"It's not that simple. Also John will kill me and Sherlock's agreed to help hide my body."

His eyes widen dramatically and he leans in, face filling her screen. "That must've been a fun conversation."

"I'm still among the living and not ringing you from a hospital bed so I'd say it could have gone worse." She shrugs a little fatalistically, the scenarios for such an encounter she'd mentally run earlier had been far more… dire. "Suffice to say the family is now involved which complicates things on both a personal and professional level."

"Which can't have come as a complete surprise to you, 'Thea. I know you, you're too much like the Guv, always ten or twelve steps ahead of everyone else."

She thinks he's giving her far, far too much credit in that but can't help preening just a smidge. "Not a surprise as such, no, but I would have dearly loved to be the one to break the news to John rather than having Sherlock blurt it out in a fit of pique."

"He's just frustrated he can't break into his fangirl's mobile," Sixto laughs, leaning back and straightening his small, white taqiyah cap. "The Guv ought to just lock those two up in a holding cell together for about twelve hours and let nature take its course. It'd do the Brat a world of good and maybe get Adler over her infatuation."

Anthea cannot say the thought hasn't crossed her mind so she doesn't debate his point. Also her mind naturally shies away from any image of Sherlock and Irene… intimate. Although, on occasion, she has let herself indulge in a fantasy or two regarding Sherlock bound, gagged and whipped bloody with a bamboo cane. Just on occasion.

Their conversation having run its disturbing course she decides a change of topic is in order. 

"Where are you headed now?" she asks. It's both a professional and a personal question. Anthea wonders which of the two impulses will inspire him to answer.

"East." His attempted smile is a bit too near a grimace for her taste. "The Sons have been rather naughty and the local warlords are disinclined to take them in hand. They're causing no end of trouble to the Amer- er, us."

Anthea can't help being a bit warmed by the verbal slip. He's still one of them; he always will be. She smiles gently and asks, "You are still receiving intel via the cipher?"

"Mmm, bit of a double edged sword that." He plays with a loose thread on his off-white kurta absently. "Can't seem like we know too much or, pfft," Sixto makes a vague explosive gesture with his hands, "it'll all go up in smoke… possibly literally." He winds and unwinds the frayed white cord around his fingers almost hypnotically. "I don't envy them that have to make the call on which information is actionable and which poor sods are left twistin' in the wind." He shrugs almost violently and abruptly drops the thread. "Anyway, I go where I'm told and kill who I'm told, same as it ever was. Only difference now is I'm out in the middle of fuckin' nowhere doin' it."

She expects that must be a desperately lonely way to live, more a soldier's life than a civilian's, only without any real acknowledgement or acclaim from the public at large. She wonders if he'll qualify for some sort of veteran's benefits someday. "You'll check in with me, yeah? Often as you can."

His long face virtually transforms from a dejected, somewhat foreign landscape to the well-known topography of his brilliant smile. "'Course I will." He drops his eyes suddenly and fidgets a little. "Uh, 'Thea, can I ask you a favor?"

She leans back a little, her expression closing off as much as her body language between one breath and the next. This is unknown territory in their new relationship and it's best to proceed carefully. "You can ask." That much, at least she can allow between them for old time's sake.

"If, um, something were to happen to me, my mum and family would be notified by my… uh, employers." Neither one of them has voiced the acronym CIA since Sixto was discovered to be clandestinely working for them. It's an obvious sore spot. They'll discuss it eventually, they'll have to, but for now it's best avoided. "But, well, there's this girl I was seeing…"

Anthea's wariness dissolves immediately. She's leaning forward again eagerly with a smile so broad her cheeks hurt a little. "A girl, eh?"

Despite his recent sun exposure Sixto still blushes an alarming, almost absurd pink. "Her name's Darcy, she's sweet and sexy and somehow seems pretty keen on me. She doesn't know what I do, of course, thinks I'm security for a diplomatic consultant." He pauses to smile a little bashfully and it's obvious this girl is less like one of John's flings and more like an actual, honest-to-god relationship as far as Sixto's concerned. "I haven't had a chance to introduce her to the family. I'm hoping to when I get back to the States. If my mum's talking to me by then, of course."

Anthea winces slightly. His mother hadn't been all that pleased by her son's abrupt move to the US. She is exquisitely aware of the fact that he has no one to blame but himself for that, but angry, disappointed mothers are something with which she can't help but feel a certain empathy. For many weeks she'd been able to tell herself that he'd simply earned what he'd deserved in terms of maternal disapproval. Karma. Now she's less certain, or more sympathetic. Possibly both.

"Anyway." He clears his throat and straightens a little before saying, "What I wanted to know is if you'd be willing to let Darcy know. Not, I mean ,not the real story, she doesn't need to know the particulars… can't really, she doesn't have the security clearance. But if I meet a sticky end I'd really like it if someone could let her know I won't be coming home. I wouldn't want her to wait around wondering, y'know?"

"That," she sighs, almost hideously relieved, "I can do. Should I say you were rescuing a bus load of orphans or puppies then?"

"Both?" His grin is infectious. "I trust you to come up with something sufficiently heroic."

"Puppies and orphans it is." She pretends to make a note of it. It's easier than meeting his eyes or imagining how to tell the no doubt lovely Darcy that she'll never see her boyfriend again. She understands the necessity of it in their line of work, but it's still unsettling. Her mind starts to wander down a path that leads to a scene of Mr. Holmes speaking in hushed, pseudo-comforting words to Harry before she stops the thought ruthlessly. Now is not the time… though she's not sure there ever would be a good one for that particular musing.

"I'll send you her contact info, but it's only for emergencies. I won't have you ringing her up to ask how I am in the sack."

Anthea snorts, "You forget, I've seen you naked."

"Well I certainly hope you're not going to hold that against me, I wasn't exactly at my best." He grins all Northern cheek despite his rather Eastern garb. "At any rate we all know it's not the tools you use, it's the talent."

Boys and their penis euphemisms, she thinks. Sometimes it's a bit of a relief to be a lesbian. Well, all right, most times. "I may still have a surveillance photo or two of you in that cock ring around here somewhere…"

"Send her one and you won't need to worry about John shooting you, missy." He glances behind him and she hears in a few words in Pashto from off camera. Smiling apologetically this time he shrugs and mutters, "That's it for me I'm afraid. Off to earn my truly ridiculous paycheck from my good old Uncle Sam."

"Take care, Six."

"Will do, go snog your girl for me."

The screen goes dark with a little digital chirp. She supposes the noise is meant to be pleasant and upbeat but she finds it mildly depressing these days. Each time she hears it she wonders if it will be the last time she ever speaks to her friend.

The office door opens with a smooth hiss of wood on carpet and she glances up to see Mr. Holmes enter. He spares her a polite smile before divesting himself of a Mac that, knowing his tastes, probably cost the yearly GDP of a small African nation. His bright eyes note her position at his desk and the tablet tucked up against his monitor. "How is Sixto?"

"Very well," she replies, standing smoothly to make way for the chair's true occupant. "He's got himself a girlfriend."

"Has he now?" Mycroft sounds mildly amused. "America must be agreeing with him." He pauses and taps his lips thoughtfully. "Would it be considered gauche to look into her particulars, do you suppose?"

She can't help smiling as she shakes her head. Sixto may not technically still be a part of their team but he'll always be one of them. "I shouldn't think so, sir."

"Ah, excellent. Please see to it and do let me know if you discover anything… interesting."

"Of course, sir."


	31. "I'm afraid our weekend plans will have to be canceled."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything goes to hell and Anthea discovers she's a superhero.

As the afternoon moves on she finds herself becoming oddly ill at ease. There's no discernable reason for it, aside from the fact that they're a mere two days away from the flight and destruction of a certain US-bound aircraft. That in itself is the cause of some of her agitation, she knows this, despite the fact that everything is (in essence) complete. The stone has been sent rolling down the hill; momentum and a little luck should be all that's required now.

And that's the rub, right there; she hates relying on something as arbitrary and unreliable as luck. It is the last resort of those too lazy to plan properly, and she may have many faults but laziness is not among them. Every aspect of this project has been set out with meticulous care, every single domino in just the right position. Mr. Holmes merely needs to flick one elegant finger and everything will fall just as it should and where it should.

He believes it, is calmly certain of it in fact. If he slept, which she knows he rarely indulges in, he'd do so peacefully and deeply at present. Mr. Holmes has the serenity of the brilliantly righteous about him, like a sort of Machiavellian Buddha.

She wishes she could share that certainty, she really does. Instead, she's just as profoundly sure it's all about to go horrifically cock-eyed. Mycroft raises a slightly scornful eyebrow at her concern but refrains from comment. She wonders if he doesn't want to hurt her feelings by laying out, in exquisite detail, just how perfectly everything's going. Or if perhaps her mood is catching.

Does he doubt himself, she wonders, on those long sleepless nights? He must, mustn't he? After all, he is still human. She knows; she's read his medical files and spoken at length with his cardiologist.

Still, when she tries to imagine a Holmes, either Holmes, doubting themselves and their own brutal genius, her mind draws a blank.

Of course as soon as Elias walks in the door of her office, his normally dour, off-kilter features downright grim, she knows her instincts were right. She doesn't want to know what tragedy has come to pass that will turn this project from order to chaos… but she needs to. "What is it?"

"She's back."

Two days before Bond Air, Irene returns to London. Anthea forces herself to take a deep breath. In for ten, out for ten. Then she asks, "You're sure?"

Elias gives her a jerky nod, his eyes slipping reluctantly to Mycroft's door. "Should I…?"

"I'll tell him. Just… just keep an eye on her. Take whoever you need for continual surveillance."

His relief is almost palpable. The hard, stocky little man might fear precious little on this Earth, but he is acutely sensitive to Mr. Holmes' displeasure. She doesn't fault him for this, but she does envy him a little when he all but bolts out the door. She'd like to do precisely the same thing but that will not, cannot happen.

When she enters her employer's office he's head down over a pile of diplomatic messages from their agent in Aleppo. He doesn't glance up until she says, "Sir…"

His eyes rake over her so quickly that she doesn't notice precisely where they land. Her troubled expression? Tense shoulders? The position of her feet? She really can't say what gives her away in the few heartbeats it takes him to say, "The Woman has returned I take it."

She sighs. Sometimes its so much simpler to work for a Holmes. Not having to actually say the words is a small weight lifted from her overburdened shoulders. She'll take what she can get. "Elias will head surveillance."

"We know where she's going. The only question is will she concede defeat and reclaim her mobile or…"

"Or?" Anthea's not certain she really wants to know, but the question slips out before she can clamp her lips shut.

He leans back in his lush leather desk chair and waves one hand dismissively. "My brother wouldn't be that foolish. He couldn't be that foolish…"

She wonders who he's trying to convince here because they are talking about a man who nearly swallowed a poison capsule just to prove how clever he was. A brilliant creature Sherlock might be, but sensible he is not. That's what he has John for.

"It simply doesn't make sense that he would trust her." He's talking to himself, of course, so she waits patiently for him to reach a conclusion, or more importantly, a plan of action. She'd need an awfully long skein of thread to follow him into and safely out of the labyrinth of his mind. She's learned it's best to be patient and wait outside. "A move on her would alert dear Jim. There's no scenario in which he could possibly miss so obvious a connection." He sighs and rubs his eyes almost roughly before saying, "We've missed our opportunity to nip this in the bud, I fear. As much as I dread saying this we'll need to rely on Sherlock's… discretion. Or his profound inability to trust his fellow man, at any rate."

If trusting Sherlock to keep his damn mouth shut is their best hope she's reasonably certain they're doomed. She feels cold and hollow inside all of a sudden and she wants very badly to run to Harry's place and just be held tightly for a few hours. Maybe she could get Harry to stroke her hair and say, "There, there," as well. That would be nice.

"For now Elias is to observe but not interfere. If she should make a move on 221B have his team delay her, but they are not to bring her in under any circumstances. If need be he can alert D.I. Lestrade - I believe there are still outstanding charges against Ms. Adler, the Met's intervention should go relatively unnoticed by Mr. Moriarty. I'll… speak to Sherlock in the meantime. Perhaps I can convince him to turn over the mobile in exchange for some new entertainment." He produces his all-access security card between two fingers like a stage magician presenting an ace of diamonds. "He is rather fond of breaking into high security facilities." He slips the card into an outer pocket where only Sherlock will notice it and find the temptation irresistible.

"You think he'll go for it?"

"Well," his voice is soft and his eyes are anything but optimistic, "one lives in hope."

\--

It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon when it all goes to hell.

Dominoes are suddenly contravening the laws of physics to fall in every which direction save the one they're meant to. The one she'd so patiently set them up to fall in. She's flailing wildly trying to stop the chaos even though she knows it's much too late. Far, far too late.

God how she wishes it really had been Irene on that slab at St. Bart's.

The first sign of impending doom is a call from Elias to inform her that his men have lost Irene. Horrifying, to be sure, but not entirely unexpected. They've informed Lestrade, so a good portion of the London constabulary are keeping an eye out as well. She texts John to warn him and hopes he can keep Sherlock occupied somewhere other than their flat just long enough for flight 007 to get off the ground. That's really all she needs. Irene can play whatever games she likes at that point - hell, Anthea might even join her… for old time's sake if nothing else.

And, of course, Sherlock is his usual contrary self, deciding to sit around 221B bored and petulant instead of bounding off with his brand new all-access security card. There are literally thousands of normally impassible doors throughout the British Isles that he could simply waltz through at the moment… and yet it's all John can do to drag him out for groceries. Yet another indication that there simply cannot be a just and loving God, as if she needed one.

Has Irene contacted Sherlock, perhaps? Sent another of her "dinner" invitations? Anthea doesn't know or much care because as soon as she gets the text, 'She's here' from John she knows it's all over.

Screaming is… tempting. Instead she snarls at Harry over scones - scones for God's sake - and then runs upstairs and barricades herself in the guest room to panic and sulk. It's childish to sit there staring at her phone, willing there to be some piece of good news, some last minute play by Mr. Holmes that will make everything right. But all she gets is a tension headache and a sore back and bottom from sitting against the door.

When the phone finally does ring she nearly leaps out of her skin. "Sir?" There is mad, wild hope in her voice. She sounds like a desperate disciple begging for just one more miracle.

Sadly, the miracle does not come. All she hears is a voice so infinitely weary that asks, "Would you be so kind as to summon the car and meet me at the house. I'm afraid our weekend plans will have to be canceled."

She's gripping the phone so hard her fingers ache. "Of course, sir."

"Thank you, my dear." He sounds so very far away. Perhaps that's why it takes her so long to recognize the defeat in his voice.

Anthea runs a hand over her face and through her loose hair; it's self-comfort, the only kind she has the time or energy for at the moment. She's not wearing any makeup and is in an ancient sweatshirt and jeans she's kept since college. She could get dressed, she supposes, but it's Saturday and everything's gone to shit and she just really doesn't care.

Forcing herself painfully to her feet, she pulls the door open and trots downstairs. She'll run a comb through her hair at least, maybe pin it back. It's not much but he'll notice she's made at least a token effort. He'll appreciate it, she thinks.

Harry's plain, honest face is still somewhat shuttered as she watches Anthea descend. Her eyes are cautious, curious and make it clear that she will be willing to listen when her girlfriend is ready to talk. Her stocky body is tense with the need to fleet to the nearest pub as soon as Anthea is out the door, however. "You're off?"

Neither the words nor the tone are exactly conciliatory but she needn't have said anything at all. A token effort on her part then. Anthea folds her arms over her chest. "I need… can you…" Her cheeks feel warm and wet. She's fucking over the moon that she didn't bother with makeup because she can't bear to add one more item to the ruined column today. "Don't go to the pub. Just be here for me when I get back. Just this once. Can you… can you do that for me?"

Harry might have a response to that, but Anthea rushes on before she can speak. "Something terrible's happened and I'm going now to try and help put it right. I can't tell you anything more than that, I wish to God I could, but I can't. I don't even know how long it'll take or when I'll be back, I just know…" She has to take a deep breath for this next bit. "I'm going to need you tonight. Possibly more than I've ever needed anyone in my entire life. Will you…will you be here?"

Harry stands and approaches her almost cautiously, as if Anthea might startle and bolt for the door. They just stare at one another for a long, pensive moment before Harry brushes her knuckles along Anthea's cheek and says, "Go save the world, I'll be here when you get back." She pauses and then says, "I'll be here, I promise." There's suddenly just the tiniest hint of mischief in her gold-flecked eyes. "God, I feel like the heroine in a superhero flick."

"Who does that make me?" Anthea's lips quirk and she suddenly feels lighter than she has in weeks.

"Wonder Woman," Harry murmurs, wrapping two strong arms around her girlfriend's waist. "Definitely Wonder Woman."


	32. "All ruined, all finished, and who can I blame but myself and my own hubris for this outcome?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea and Mr. Holmes prepare for their final confrontation with Irene.

It takes her a moment to identify the haunting melody that floats through the house, echoing off centuries old wood paneling and the portraits of Holmes men long dead. "Moonlight Sonata", she knows this from a brief stint acting as a secondary bodyguard to a minor Croatian dignitary who was all but obsessed with Beethoven. She'd expected Chopin, but thinks that perhaps today's disaster merits something a bit more grandiose, something epic. Chopin might do for the death of a parent, but clearly Beethoven is required for real disasters.

Daniels gives her a sympathetic look, his normally somber expression downright funerary. "Master Mycroft is in the front sitting room." He gestures half-heartedly, but she knows her way around the house by now. It's her employer's home now, though he hasn't fully exorcised his mother's spirit from the place. Her touch lingers like a fine film of dust, ubiquitous but subtle. There are the small, delicate porcelain vases, elegant velvet window dressings and the pale peach that covers the walls of the main hall. Mycroft's encroachments mostly consist of a newly tuned and exquisitely cared for Steinway and a few well-pampered houseplants.

She runs a finger along a Philodendron leaf gently before crossing the main hall. With a hand on the doorknob she pauses, her eyes sliding shut so that the music can wash over her like a tide. It's both soothing and unsettling at once. This is as close as she is ever likely to come to her employer's grief, and perhaps shame; it's laid bare in every note. It's beautiful and heartbreaking and so stunningly fragile that she finds it almost hard to breathe for fear of disturbing it.

When the final notes fade to silence she's still reluctant to open the door. She feels as if she's violating some longstanding trust between them. But he did summon her, he invited her here now, and it would seem far more of a betrayal to abandon him. After all, she has Harry to turn to tonight. Mycroft's only companion is likely to be a tall glass of scotch.

She'd happily remain by his side this evening if she could imagine a world in which the suggestion wouldn't be met by baffled incomprehension at best, and mild distaste at worst.

"Please do come in, my dear." His words are all the impetus she needs, has ever needed, to obey him.

He's abandoned his jacket, shirtsleeves rolled up and tie loose. He doesn't turn to acknowledge her entrance, doesn't need to, but his hands have stilled on the keys. Taking a sip of the amber liquid in the port glass to his left, he says, "Well, it has been a day of revelations, none of them particularly helpful to our little enterprise I'm afraid."

He does turn then and hands her his mobile. She calls up the last text message and reads, 'Jumbo Jet. Dear me, Mr Holmes, dear me.' The mobile falls from her nerveless hands with a pathetic thump.

Mycroft's gray eyes study the little lump of plastic on the oriental carpet, before he muses, "Perhaps it's for the best. 'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:  
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair'. There's a lesson in it, for myself most of all it would seem."

"Sir…" It comes out choked and broken sounding.

"All ruined, all finished, and who can I blame but myself and my own hubris for this outcome?"

And no, that's just not fair, she won't stand for it. "This isn't your fault, it's Irene and that sick bastard Moriarty and your thoughtless br-"

"No," his voice his sharp but not at all angry, "no, we shan't be blaming Sherlock for this. I threw him in her path. I set these events in motion. I should have listened to you, my dear, you saw this Adler business so much more clearly than I." He sighs, a long wistful sound, and his fingers begin to tease out a melancholy tune from the Steinway. "The waste, the dreadful waste of it all is what rankles the most, I fear." He smiles so quickly she almost doesn't catch it in the half-light. "I know I should be desperately upset about all the innocent lives that will no doubt be lost now that the terrorists have been alerted to the breaking of the cipher…"

This time she smiles and retrieves the phone, her hands have stopped shaking. "That's all right, sir, I'll handle that bit for you." And she will; there will be far too many long sleepless nights ahead of her where she will do nothing but fret about the nameless, faceless innocents who will be doomed to a horrific death because they've been one-upped by Irene.

"What would I do without you?" He sounds both amused and slightly relieved. She's happy to provide him with even a bit of either today. Finally he sighs again and turns to face her properly. "That's quite enough wallowing I should think. We'd best get back to work. There's much to do."

"Do?" She's baffled and not the slightest bit embarrassed to admit it. After all, what can possibly be done at this point?

"I've sent Plummer to fetch my brother and bring him to Heatthrow with a ticket for Flyaway Airways flight 007. He should, at the very least, be made to see what his carelessness has wrought. Not that I believe it will do much good. Still, with patience and persistence all things may someday be possible." He smiles, a tense, strained stiffening of his lips that bears very little in common with real amusement. "We should join him and await Ms. Adler's pleasure."

He stands and unrolls his shirtsleeves, slowly but efficiently returning to his normal unassuming elegance. She helps with his tie, letting her fingers linger a second or two on the cool silk. His lips twitch again, but there's something warmer there this time, less forced… almost intimate. 

When she steps back he slides into his jacket and stands before her as tidily put together as if he'd just entered the office on Monday morning. "Acceptable?"

"Yes," she replies, smoothing out his pocket square almost automatically. "Quite acceptable."

"Excellent. It's always best to go into battle well girded, as it were."

"Are we at war, sir?" she asks, startled.

"Always, my dear," he replies without missing a beat, his eyes a little distant. "Always."


	33. "The Flight of the Dead."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea and Mycroft confront The Woman.
> 
> -Posting early this week due to the holiday and hey, I got finished early so why not? :)

When they reach the airport, Agent Neilson opens the car door.

Anthea sends her employer an alarmed, somewhat betrayed look. Mr. Holmes seems only mildly surprised and steps out of the car a little warily. She assumes he was forced to contact the CIA after he was texted by Moriarty. It is, or rather was, a joint effort after all. 

"I was in Calais," Neilson offers, his voice astonishingly civil. "My director thought it would be wise to have someone on hand to represent the agency's interests."

She expects the man to bask in a certain amount of smug self-righteousness, but honestly he just seems as tired and dispirited as they are. "I see," Mr. Holmes replies, staring at the jet as if by will alone he could undo the damage Sherlock has done.

"There's no way we could…"

"No," Mycroft cuts the agent off smoothly, his eyes settling onto the man almost reluctantly. "No, I'm afraid that ship has sailed, so to speak. Now we must see what, if anything, can be salvaged. That, sadly, will depend almost entirely upon Ms. Adler."

Neilson's jaw sets pugnaciously. "We have some pretty effective intelligence retrieval outsourcing initiatives in place, if you'd be interested in making use of them."

She wonders a bit at his rather circumspect terminology, perhaps it's just habit on his part. Surely he can't think they don't know precisely what sorts of black ops the CIA is engaged in on any given day in any number of discreet third world hell holes. Or that they don't have similar agreements with the immoral leaders of those regrettably useful hell holes, giving them access to their local pool of well-trained sadists.

And while she acknowledges the usefulness of said black site outsourcing in the past, she rather hopes Mr. Holmes will turn down this particular offer. She's not being squeamish, not exactly. Irene deserves to be punished for what she's done, incarcerated certainly, but her mind shies away from the image of Irene thrown in a dark cell in Bosnia-Herzegovina for round after round of humiliation and torture.

"I'll certainly take it under advisement, though I'll admit that would not be my preferred outcome." Anthea is reasonably certain he's talking about his aesthetic preferences at this point. Things are quite messy enough without Irene's battered, blood-soaked corpse added to the proverbial heap.

Which reminds her…

"Should we begin disembarking the passengers, sir?"

Mycroft's lips quirk briefly in acknowledgement of the euphemism before he replies, "Not just yet, my dear, I should like to have a brief chat with my brother first." He addresses Neilson next, "Would you mind terribly waiting on the tarmac? I can't imagine your presence aboard will make Sherlock any more conducive to reason."

Neilson shrugs and assumes a relaxed "ready" stance at the foot of the stairs. "Sure, but if he says anything…"

"I leave that to your discretion, of course." Mycroft places a hand tentatively on the small of her back. "I'd like you to accompany me, my dear. I don't quite trust myself to remain civil to my brother just at the moment. I would find your presence a stabilizing influence during what is certain to be a rather unpleasant conversation."

She swallows down a protest because Jesus God she doesn't want to enter that high tech mausoleum. And yet he's just made it clear that he needs her, so of course she's going to climb those stairs. With a forced smile she says, "Yes sir."

"It won't be long." He's quite obviously aware of her reluctance; she'd be stunned if he weren't. "Plummer should be here momentarily."

Following him up the stairs is more difficult than she would have expected. She's prepared to follow him into hell if need be but her lizard brain is all but shrieking at her to flee as far away from this tomb as she can. Perhaps she can blame a part of it on her own unfortunate fondness for horror films. It's not that she literally thinks the dead bodies likely to climb out of their seats hungering for the flesh of the living. That's just silly. But she must admit that if the soul does exist, she's about to enter a plane full of people with every right to want to haunt her.

Clearly her employer doesn't share her trepidation. He might just as easily be attending an art gallery as boarding the Flight of the Dead for all the concern he displays. With the wave of a hand he ushers her into the stewardess' compartment, thankfully well away from the bodies and separated by a curtain. It's a flimsy barrier, but one for which she's profoundly grateful.

She still knows they're there. She can feel them. Truth be told she thinks she can even smell them a bit, though she knows they were all perfectly preserved. It's nerves, just nerves she reminds herself, and forces herself to take a seat.

"Remain here while I speak to Sherlock. I'll fetch you when we're ready to leave." 

"All right, sir." She tries to sound reassuring; she is, after all, here to act as moral support. It takes some effort to force her body to assume the relaxed, almost slack posture she uses to absorb the strike of the riding crop or the cracking sting of the cane, but she can rely on muscle memory for the most part. She doesn't expect to fool him into believing she's comfortable with this situation but that's not really the point.

He eyes her a bit dubiously then shrugs. She isn't certain if he's worked out that she's not about to bolt from the plane like a frightened cat or simply acknowledging that her emotional state aside, he still needs her. Someone has to hold the compass needle of his tempestuous sibling relationship with Sherlock steady. She can be his emotional true north, is rather proud to be, truth be told.

They both hear Sherlock's arrival in the form of a few moderate words exchanged with Agent Neilson. No gun fire, though, so Neilson is clearly determined to behave himself tonight despite provocation. Though they can't hear the actual words there's no doubt that Sherlock is doing his level best to be as provocative as possible.

Sherlock treads carefully in the body of the 747, clearly puzzled by the crowd of utterly silent, still passengers waiting so patiently for takeoff. A light clicks on and she can almost see the proverbial light bulb blink to life above Sherlock's head as he realizes what he's seeing. Mycroft gives her a brief, almost pained smile before saying, "The Coventry conundrum," and stepping out from behind the curtain. "What do you think of my solution?"

She can't see his brother's face but she can well imagine the mild astonishment washing across his pale features, mouth slightly agape and eyes almost black in the dim light. "The Flight of the Dead," Mycroft supplies helpfully then waits patiently for Sherlock to begin putting all the pieces together. Her employer still sounds vaguely playful, the bemused older brother.

"The plane blows up mid-air. Mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies." She can tell Sherlock's trying desperately not to sound impressed.

"Neat," Mycroft quips, "don't you think?"

When Sherlock doesn't respond, his brother continues, "You've been stumbling around this one for ages, or were you too bored to notice the pattern?" His tone is less bemused now, more openly disappointed. "We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn't make the flight. But that's the deceased for you, late… in every sense of the word."

Anthea manages to stifle an amused snort, but only just.

"How's the plane going to fly?" The question's barely voiced before he mutters, "Of course, unmanned aircraft. Hardly new." He sounds annoyed with himself for the mental slip.

"It doesn't fly. It will never fly." She expected more recrimination when he made this clear to Sherlock, but her employer's voice remains mild, almost kind. "This entire project is canceled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can't fool them now." He takes a breath and there's just the slightest edge in his voice as he adds, "We've lost everything. One fragment of one email and months and years of planning finished."

Sherlock scoffs, "Your MOD man."

"That's all it takes. One lonely naive man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special."

"Hmm." Sherlock voice is so obviously dismissive that her hands clench into fists. "You should screen your defense people more carefully."

She's almost relieved when Mycroft's voice rises sharply. "I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock, I'm talking about _you!_ " Mycroft emphasizes the last with a sharp rap of his umbrella tip against the floor. And while she knows she's meant to keep Mycroft from saying anything that might irreparably harm the relationship between the brothers, some part of her is rather hoping he'll tear the git apart just this once. When he speaks next his voice is softer but no less dangerous for it, and she begins to think she might just get her wish. "The damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was _textbook_." And now she knows where Sherlock learned the art of derision, under the tutelage of its true master. "The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption, then give him a puzzle and watch him _dance_."

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock is trying desperately to sound condescending but it comes out breathy with shock.

"Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute," Mycroft sneers, "or were you really eager to impress?"

While Sherlock fumbles silently for a response an all too familiar voice replies, "I think it was less than five seconds."

Anthea sighs just a little, because she's heard that tone far too often not to recognize it now. It's Irene victorious. _The Woman Ascendant_. She's won, she's won and she not only knows it, but is preparing for a leisurely victory lap to rub everyone's face in the fact.

Clearly Mycroft recognizes it as well and his tone is both rueful and apologetic. "I drove you into her path… I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Anthea wants to protest, but he's not wrong, at least not entirely. Of course, she's never known him to be entirely wrong about anything. He did set Sherlock on this path to some extent, but it was Jim Moriarty who's been driving them all towards this particular cliff like some suicidal chauffeur. Even if Mycroft hadn't arranged for Sherlock to be given the Adler case Moriarty would've seen to it that the younger Holmes found his way to Irene's doorstep. It was inevitable, surely her employer has to see that.

"Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk."

Irene is all business now, and Anthea pulls out her phone to alert Daniels that they'll be needing tea and possibly refreshments. There are sure to be negotiations, demands, counter-offers, and these sorts of things can go on for hours. They could, perhaps, use one of the MI6 locations instead, but Sherringford House is both secure and isolated, as well as well away from Irene's comfort zone. Perhaps it will give them a slight edge.

"So do I." Sherlock sounds almost desperate now, certain there's some way to salvage the situation. "There are a number of aspects I'm still not quite clear on."

"Not you, Junior." Irene dismisses him almost absently. "You're done now."

Anthea thinks that this might be the moment where Sherlock finally realizes his role in this farce. It can't be a happy realization, to know he's served his purpose as a gullible dupe and that now it's time for the grown-ups to get down to business. She rather wonders if Mycroft will send his brother home now to think about what he's done, or if he'll drag him along to see it through to the end.

"There's more." Irene is quite obviously preening now. "Loads more." Anthea hears the beep of a mobile. "On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother."

She hears her employer sigh, and she can well imagine the resignation on his features. "I think a more private venue might suit us all a bit better, wouldn't you agree?" Mycroft turns and addresses her, "Anthea would you join us, please?"

She's at his shoulder almost before he finishes his question and murmurs, "I thought perhaps the house, sir."

He considers her proposal for a few seconds then nods decisively. "Yes, that will do quite nicely I think." Gesturing toward the exit he adds, "Ladies first."

Irene is positively beaming, not only has she won her little game, but she's inadvertently assembled precisely the audience she desires to witness it. Her glittering eyes jump restlessly from Anthea to Sherlock and back as if she can't quite decide which she prefers to twist the knife in first. With a dry chuckle she moves down the stairs, her heels tapping a sharp, staccato rhythm.

Plummer is standing down the aisle - Anthea supposes he must have escorted The Woman aboard - and gives her a questioning look. Shaking her head, Anthea lets him know they won't require any further services for the evening. She can't imagine they'll have any need for security, and if anyone needs shooting she's damned well going to be the one pulling the trigger.

"Mycroft, I…" Sherlock's words stumble to a quiet halt and his eyes drop to the floor. There's an unsettling humility in his expression that should give her a degree of satisfaction. After all he has well and truly earned this tumble down to earth. But she finds herself feeling, if not sorry for him, at least a bit sympathetic. After all, he's now joined what had been a rather exclusive club, one for which she is a founding member. 

The elder Holmes seems fascinated by his umbrella, staring down at his hands as they clench on its handle. "It might be best for you to return to 221B."

She hears Sherlock's soft gasp, little more than a whisper even on the silent jet. He thrusts his hands abruptly into the pockets of his great coat and slumps in on himself even farther. Neither of the brothers seems willing to look at the other. Anthea finally offers, "I can summon another car, if you'd like."

The words are spoken with a degree of kindness she honestly hadn't thought she'd be able to summon up on Sherlock's behalf. Instead of relief or even simple gratitude, his eyes narrow into a glare. He pulls his collar up and brushes past the two of them, stomping down the stairs and undoubtedly straight into their car. So be it, she thinks and turns to her employer.

He's taking slow, deep breaths, his eyes still downcast. Hesitantly she reaches out and lays a hand on his arm. After a few more breaths one of his warm, surprisingly gentle hands covers hers and gives it a quick squeeze. Then he straightens and offers her his elbow, as if they were about to stroll onto a dance floor together. "Shall we, my dear?"


	34. "A girl could get used to this sort of thing."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Mycroft and The Woman have their final showdown and Anthea receives an unexpected surprise from Sherlock.

The car ride is… uncomfortable.

Sherlock sends constant, almost hopeful sidelong glances toward Mycroft, which his brother won't deign to acknowledge. The brothers sit together across from the two women. Anthea expects that Irene made at least a token effort to curl up next to Sherlock and was rebuffed… she's almost sorry she missed that.

Anthea doesn't mind her proximity to Irene; after all she's fully dressed and well versed in Irene's most provocative tactics. For the moment Anthea divides her attention between the car's occupants and her mobile. She toys with the idea of texting Harry but thinks better of it; somehow she can't quite bear to drag Harry into this tableau even symbolically.

The silence isn't pleasant, but it's tolerable… at least to Anthea. Apparently it's somewhat less so to Irene who begins by shifting sinuously in the seat next to her. Anthea glances up, not alarmed, but wary. "Why don't we stop off for a bite of dinner?" Irene leers, eyeing the Holmes brothers specutively. "I'm positively ravenous."

"Ah yes," Mycroft returns blandly, "sexual innuendo, very amusing."

"My god," she pouts, assuming an exaggeratedly wounded expression, "can nothing get a rise out of you?" With a smirk she trails a foot up Sherlock's calf. When he flinches away, his mouth a moue of disgust, Mycroft's eyes lock on the dominatrix and narrow dangerously. "Ah," is all she says, but her smile is a mix of triumph and wickedness.

Sherlock wedges himself as far into the corner as someone just over six feet tall can manage and stares resolutely out the window. Anthea wonders if he now regrets his insistence on coming along. Indeed, she's certain he'd rather be at home abusing his violin, growling at John and licking his wounds. He seems diminished in a way that not even the ravages of his lurking drug addiction had previously managed.

When she dares a glance over at Irene, the dominatrix is also watching Sherlock, but for just a moment her expression is more thoughtful than triumphant. She may even be a little concerned, which tells Anthea far more than she wanted to know. Is that just the tiniest stab of jealousy, she wonders? Perhaps. But she's survived Irene's indifference before; she will again. If some part of her chooses to see Sherlock as a rival, well, it's not as if they've ever been bosom chums.

Before she can really react Irene is suddenly in her personal space, all smooth, nimble little hands and Chanel No. 5. "At least you're happy I'm here, aren't you, Pet?"

Anthea sighs and angles herself away from Irene so that she can't see the screen of her mobile.

"Oh don't be so cold." Irene spares a quick, vicious glance at Mycroft before purring, "It's quite chilly enough in here as it is… and me without my wrap." One finger trails delicately up Anthea's side, leaving her shivering in its tingling wake. "I could use a bit of a cuddle, for old time's sake, hmm?" Irene glances up to note her performance has earned her Sherlock's startled, wide-eyed attention and Mycroft's glower. She couldn't be more pleased. "You did know that Miranda and I had a history together, didn't you?"

Sherlock blinks slowly then drawls, "Of course."

He's lying, blatantly, almost transparently. His pale eyes snap up to meet Anthea's and there is something so like desperation there that she catches her breath. Does he really think she's going to give Irene the satisfaction of exposing his deceit? God, she's not the sadist in this little impromptu carpool, and she's not stupid enough to hand Irene any more ammunition.

When he notes that they are, at least in this instance, a unified front he mutters a bored, "But do go on with your little scene if you like." He turns his attention back to the passing scenery beyond the tinted windows. "Mycroft might find it entertaining."

Anthea's employer sighs and rolls his eyes but doesn't otherwise respond. 

"So," Irene asks conversationally, "where are we off to?" 

"A secure location," Anthea replies absently, well aware that no one else is going to say anything to The Woman.

"Sounds charming."

When they reach the house Irene seems mildly impressed, slinking behind Mycroft as he hands his umbrella to Daniels. She stands in the middle of the main hall and does a slow turn and whistle. "The Holmes family estate, I presume. Lovely. A girl could get used to this sort of thing."

"I shouldn't," Mycroft returns mildly, "if I were you."

When Daniels approaches Sherlock for his coat he receives a haughty glare in return. Fortunately the butler is well versed in the ways of the younger Holmes brother and simply waits patiently. With an exaggerated huff Sherlock shrugs out of the coat and all but throws it at him before turning on his heel and marching into the dining room. Anthea's a little surprised when he doesn't slam the door behind him.

"I suppose the dining room will do, if you'd follow me, Ms. Adler." Mycroft leads The Woman politely in Sherlock's wake. He spares Anthea a brief look and she musters up a smile for him. When he shuts the door quietly between them she feels suddenly, intensely isolated. It seems wrong. It feels… wrong.

Anthea sighs and wanders over to the main staircase to sit down and wait. She's suddenly very glad she dressed down today. Daniels is rather obviously dismayed, as if she's inadvertently broken some age old rule of etiquette. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable in the study?" He's actually wringing his hands and gazing fretfully at the dining room.

She smiles and shakes her head. "I'd rather wait here in case Mr. Holmes needs me." Her mobile buzzes in her hand, and she glances down to see John's somewhat harried face gazing back at her. She'd snapped that photo the third time she'd kidnapped him and it remains a favorite. "I'm sorry." Her voice is kind but firm. "I must take this."

Daniels nods, gives her an honest to god half bow and retreats to what she presumes is the kitchen. When he's gone she answers the call. "Yes, John?"

"So have you made off with my flatmate or should I be worried?" His tone is a bit brusque, but that's understandable. Returning to 221B to find both Sherlock and Irene missing was probably a bit unnerving.

"He's here with us."

"Oh thank god." All three words jumble together in a breathy sigh. "He's all right then?"

"Well," she hedges, wondering just how much to share with John. "That's a matter of opinion at this point. But I can say he's physically fine."

There's a long uncomfortable silence. "Come again?"

"Sherlock's done something a bit… foolish and I'm afraid he's having his nose rubbed in it just at the moment."

"I… see." She sometimes wonders why he's so fond of that phrase when it's almost never actually true. "Should I consider this a Danger Night?"

"For the time being all signs point to yes." A sudden flash of inspiration makes her say, "Actually I think it might be best if I sent a car round to collect you."

"Me?" John all but yelps. "Why?"

"Sherlock may need you sooner rather than later. You don't have any plans do you?"

They both know the question is rhetorical, an odd little formality she seems to insist upon regularly. She lets him mumble, "Well actually…" before talking right over him. "Splendid, I'll send Elias straight over then."

He sighs; it's the longsuffering sound of a man unlikely to be shagged any time soon. "Fine, fine. God knows if Sherlock needs his hand held then I'll be off to… uh, where am I off to exactly?"

"Chipping Onger. Sherringford House, the family estate."

"Really?" He goes from annoyed to intrigued faster than anyone she's ever met. "Very 'Upstairs, Downstairs' is it?

"Mmm, more 'Downton Abbey' I should think."

"That's… huh. Right, OK, can't wait." There's a slight pause then he says, "Should I, um, dress for this?"

"I'm in jeans and a sweatshirt myself."

"You are not."

"Am too," she laughs, "which you'll see for yourself shortly."

"How scandalous!" He sounds downright delighted. "Just so I can prepare myself, how bad is it? On, let's say, a scale of one to Moriarty?"

She ponders that, has to, because Moriarty had texted Mycroft but has yet to make an actual appearance. "Let's say Moriarty minus one," she replies at last.

"Lovely. S'pose I'll see you in a bit."

"Can't wait." She's at least mildly pleased with herself. Not only has she produced a human-form safety net for Sherlock's wounded ego, she'll soon have someone to chat with while she waits for Irene and Mycroft to complete their business.

Anthea has just enough time to finish a truly divine cup of Earl Grey and the finale of _'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo'_ when she hears a meek rap at the front door. She scurries to answer it before Daniels can reappear. Pulling the door open with a cheeky grin, she chirps, "Who shall I say is calling?"

John's wearing a light jacket over one of his ubiquitous second hand jumpers, and a more openly fretful expression than usual. "I feel like I should go round to the servant's entrance." He gazes inside carefully, like a tourist, hands thrust in his pockets to avoid the temptation to touch. "I mean I know the family has money, but, crikey. Is there a conservatory? Tell me there's a conservatory!"

"I dunno," Anthea returns with a quick, single shoulder shrug. "We could ask Daniels I suppose."

"Of course there's a butler named Daniels," he sighs, finally stepping inside and gazing awestruck at the chandelier dangling gracefully above the foyer. "I really should have dressed for this." With a quick shake of his head he shrugs out of his jacket and asks, "So, you want to catch me up then?"

She nods over to the staircase and they both sit down, almost but not quite touching. "I can't tell you all the details but I can say that Sherlock gave Irene just the information that she, or rather Mr. Moriarty, wanted."

"Bugger!" he hisses, wincing visibly.

"Indeed." She leans back rather enjoying the feel of the plush stair runners against her back. "Sadly, he didn't quite manage to break her pass code and now Irene is threatening to serve up a slew of secrets and scandals to the highest bidder unless Mycroft pays her off."

"And me without my revolver," John growls, his forehead a roadmap of consternation.

"She's been playing a rather nasty little game with Sherlock, one I doubt he was even aware of until tonight. Still, finding and exploiting weaknesses is what a good dominatrix does, so I suppose we can't really fault her for that. Scorpions will sting, after all, it's just their nature." She can't help thinking she sounds a little bored, a little cynical, and alarmingly like her employer at the moment.

Anthea's had a little time to process the events, to achieve a properly philosophical perspective, but John has only just found out so she gives him a little time to spout off. And spout off he does, cursing Irene, her ancestry, and the very profession of 'recreational scolding' in general. After a good five minutes of tirade he finally winds down. "Really should've brought my revolver," he finishes before falling silent.

When they hear Sherlock's voice from the other side of the dining room door they both tense and strain forward like a couple of well trained retrievers. They exchange a glance that makes it clear neither can quite work out what's being said. There are no raised voices, no sounds of breaking furniture, just the same calm exchange of words that's been going on for the past hour or so.

"Sorry about dinner." 

It's the first phrase they can hear clearly and it is followed almost immediately by Sherlock striding through the dining room door like the youngest god emperor of Chipping Onger. He spares one brief sneer for the benefit of The Woman and his brother before shutting the door with a careless wave of his hand. He sniffs once, then mutters, "A rather unorthodox place for a tea party, wouldn't you say?"

If anyone had told her she'd happily welcome a return to pompous Sherlock even two hours ago she'd have laughed uproariously right in their face. And yet, as Sherlock strides across the foyer with a definite air of his usual thoughtless superiority she can't help feeling a bit… pleased. She and John exchange weary, relieved smiles.

"All finished, then?" John chirps, struggling a bit as he gets to his feet before reaching down to lend her a hand up.

"The Woman certainly is," he returns tartly. Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes is a vindictive little bitch when he wants to be. Not that she blames him, mind you.

"Good." As it happens, John's a bit vindictive too.

And no, it doesn't change the fact that the terrorists have been warned that their cipher is no longer of any use and all the intel they might have received from it has been rendered null and void. Nor does it magically make a plane, full of corpses that will need to be discreetly disposed of, disappear. Still, somehow or another Sherlock Holmes has gotten the better of Irene Adler, and by extension, Jim Moriarty. So the day hasn't been a total loss.

Mycroft wanders out of the dining room next, his attention focused almost exclusively on the mobile in his hands. She knows that's hardly the case, as Mr. Holmes is more than capable of attending to several different, vitally important events or information sources at one time. He likes to appear distracted, however, it often disarms those unaware of his abilities. Appearances, his enemies tend to discover to their detriment, are almost always deceiving where a Holmes is concerned.

"My, my," he murmurs with a raised eyebrow, scrolling through several images she can't quite make out from her position.

John pokes his flatmate in the ribs with an elbow and asks, "Just out of curiosity, and the future edification of my readers, of course, what did you muck up, precisely?"

"I didn't -"

Sherlock is quickly cut off by his brother's mild, vaguely distracted voice. "Only a rather thoroughly planned and beautifully executed anti-terrorist action that could, potentially, have saved hundreds if not thousands of innocent lives."

John looks horrified; Sherlock is icily livid. "Perhaps, brother mine, if you'd bothered to tell me what it was you were really after on that mobile…"

"You would have what?" Mycroft looks up. It's the first time he's met Sherlock's eyes since the encounter on the jet. "You'd have agreed to help out of your intense civic mindedness? Certainly I should have expected your thorough cooperation after the Moriarty debacle, yes?" His brother huffs and crosses his arms over his chest as Mycroft continues, saying, "Don't be absurd. Regardless, you realized I wasn't interested in those photos shortly after you arrived at Ms. Adler's abode… or else I've severely overestimated your intellectual capacity."

"Fine," Sherlock snarls, taking a somewhat threatening step towards his brother. John snags his friend's arm and gives a quick, decisive shake of his head. With a longsuffering sigh Sherlock begins again more calmly. "Fine, I was aware that there was something infinitely more valuable and dangerous on that mobile than some scandalous photos. But in my own defense, it appeared as if whatever was on there was of more interest to the CIA than to you."

Mycroft taps his lips with one long finger as he replies thoughtfully, saying, "Now how did you put it to John on the evening we met, ah yes, 'He _is_ the British government, when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.'"

"I thought that was just hyperbole," John murmurs, eyes jumping between the two brothers. "So not hyperbole then?"

Anthea can't help giggling a little and patting the doctor comfortingly on the shoulder.

"What I don't understand, well, one of the things I don't understand is how a partial airline seating chart led to all this. I mean, that's all he gave Irene, right?" John blinks and waits in vain for either brother to fill in his rather obvious blanks. 

"That's all he gave her," Anthea reassures him gently.

"It was quite sufficient," her employer adds, with an eye roll.

"So this is all to do with that flight to America." He pauses, blinking under the combined withering glares of the brothers Holmes. "...about which I am never writing a single word, clearly." The doctor deflates slightly; he's just realized this isn't going to make for a fascinating addition to his blog. "Right, well since I've got no real idea what's going on, nor am I likely to - thanks for that, by the way, I'll be out in the car. Sherlock." He leans in to make eye contact with the taller man. "We should really be going. It's late and you can argue with your brother tomorrow."

"Sorry," his flamate drawls in such a way as to make it clear he's anything but, "didn't realize it was past your bedtime."

"Yeah, well clearly it's past yours as well, so just get your monstrosity of a coat and come join me before Mycroft gets fed up and tosses you into Guantanamo or worse." John shrugs back into his own jacket and turns to Anthea, "Dinner next Wednesday?"

"It's a date," she replies, offering him a quick hug.

Daniels appears as if summoned by some silent incantation, Sherlock's greatcoat draped over his arms. The detective reclaims it and his scarf and follows John to the door. He pauses there, his back stiff and his entire body all but quivering with tension. Anthea exchanges a raised eyebrow with her employer who seems oddly pleased by his brother's sudden discomfort. "I… I am sorry, Mycroft."

There are few phrases Anthea would've found more shocking coming from the lips of the tall, elegant, infuriating man in the doorway. She can't see John's face, but she can well imagine if she could it would be a startling reflection of her own. Slightly slack-jawed, eyes wide with stunned surprise, eyebrows creeping slowly up the forehead.

"Oh no, _I_ didn't do all the work you've so thoughtlessly, one might almost say, _moronically_ , destroyed." Mycroft's eyes slide almost slyly over to Anthea.

She attempts a poker face a little belatedly… until it occurs to her that trying to protect Sherlock's "feelings" is rather a waste of time and effort, and she's still got a plane full of corpses to deal with tomorrow. She will be up bright and early on a Sunday morning making certain their passengers reach their… final destination. Not snuggling with her girlfriend, not basking in the glow of a job well done over a lazy morning of crosswords and fresh scones. So instead she lets herself grin wide and bright and utterly, unrepentantly smug.

Sherlock looks as if he'd rather part with a major organ than voice another apology, particularly to her. For a moment she thinks he'll just stalk out the door, brush past John and throw himself into the nearest car as quickly as his ridiculously long legs can carry him. But she's by no means an expert on the subject of Sherlock Holmes, and he can occasionally surprise her. "I'm sorry… Miranda."

Somehow she doesn't think he's just referring to the flight. Young Master Holmes has learned a lesson this evening, he's discovered that even as keen an observer as himself has a blind spot or two. It strikes her as a little ironic that someone as incandescent as Irene is so adept at slipping into unseen spaces.

Anthea finds her smile slipping away; it's difficult to maintain an air of superiority in the face of her first Sherlockian apology. She gives him a slow, sincere nod in acknowledgement, both of the apology, and their shared understanding. He straightens, returns her nod and leaves without another word. 

"You should be on your way as well, my dear." Mycroft's attention has returned somewhat reluctantly to the phone in his hands. Anthea can only begin to imagine what secrets it contains, though she's quite certain she'll be painfully familiar with each and every detail all too soon. "Again I am dreadfully sorry to have required your services this evening. With any luck, this will be the last such occasion for some time. There are, after all, only so many state secrets that even my brother can manage to stumble unwittingly upon."

"Sir," she replies with complete sincerity, "I'd sooner leave you alone in this house with a Black Mamba." Her eyes stray back to the dining room then she gives her employer a significant look.

"Ah yes, I thought Agent Neilson might be interested in hosting Ms. Adler for a few days. I expect they'll have a great deal to discuss." Mycroft smiles and adds, "Don't fret, I've made it very clear to him that she's to be returned in one piece. I may, after all, have a few follow up questions. If even half of the information on this device is proven valid…" He lets the statement dangle rather tantalizingly then shrugs. 

"What's going to become of her, sir?"

"That remains to be seen. She's created some very powerful enemies over the years, and I'm afraid by placing all of her metaphorical eggs in one basket she's dangerously overplayed her hand. It's a shame she's roughly as trustworthy as that viper you so aptly compared her to, as she could have been a useful asset…"

"We're cutting her loose then?" It's not exactly the question she wants to ask, but it is the most politic way of all but accusing her employer of murdering The Woman.

"I see no viable alternative." That's his roundabout way of replying that Irene was doomed the moment she sank her claws into his younger brother.


	35. "I hear Fiji is quite nice this time of year"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which The Woman exists, stage left.

It's almost astonishing how quickly life returns to a semblance of normalcy after the disastrous end of the Bond Air project. Mr. Holmes has a series of unpleasant meetings and offers a litany of apologies to more bureaucrats than Anthea was even aware were involved. He does not mention his brother, save to explain that it was his deductive work that cracked the password on Irene's mobile. The blame for the project's failure he either shoulders himself of lays neatly at The Woman's feet. Depending upon his audience, of course.

Fortunately, Irene's phone actually is the treasure trove she hinted at and has become something rather like Pandora's box. There are monsters within, to be sure, but if one is patient and thorough there is some hope to be found there as well. Mr. Holmes is nothing if not patient and his thoroughness is nigh legendary. He doesn't let the little device out of his sight for more than two minutes at a stretch and even supervised the information Anthea transferred from it for Agent Neilson.

She received an honest to god thank you from the agent; it was both exhilarating and profoundly unnerving. Still, she knows she and Mr. Holmes have helped save lives with the information and that almost counterbalances how many will be lost now that the terrorists have been forewarned. It's enough to let her sleep at night. Most nights at any rate.

On a rather gloomy Thursday she sits outside an MI6 safe house in Bexley. She's comfortably settled into the back of one of her employer's ubiquitous black Mercedes and is waiting to pick up a rather special "package". The door opens and a thoroughly shaken, diminutive brunette is thrust in beside her. It is, she thinks, a far cry from their last ride together.

Irene is wearing plain blue-gray medical scrubs, no makeup, and a somewhat shell shocked expression. Her hair is disheveled; it hangs about her shoulders limply and much longer than Anthea would have expected. Of course Anthea can't remember the last time she saw Irene with her hair in anything aside from a perfectly coiffed and intricate up do. The agents must have confiscated her hairpins in addition to the rest of her belongings. Given Irene's past it was undoubtedly a wise precaution.

The Woman stares blankly out the window. Usually she'd merely use the window as a back-up mirror, hungrily studying her own manicured perfection. Today Anthea suspects she simply needs the passing scenery to distract her from what she's just been through and what she's about to face.

"I'm to take you to Heathrow." 

Irene doesn't reply, but her tiny hands clench into white little fists.

"Your destination is up to you, within certain limits, of course. The U.S. has agreed to forego extradition so long as you avoid their country and certain other sensitive areas. I've prepared a list for you." When Irene continues to ignore her, Anthea takes an envelope from her purse and slides it across the seat. "Should you deviate from these instructions, you will be arrested and charged on several rather nasty counts of espionage, blackmail, perjury, libel… well, the list goes on." With a sigh Anthea adds, "We'll supply you with the necessary paperwork, and we've unfrozen your primary bank account so you'll have access to at least some of your funds. I should warn you that Mr. Holmes is a rather talented forensic accountant in addition to his other notable abilities, and we've located and taken charge of most of your foreign accounts and investments. I shouldn't count on any of those monies were I you."

The muscles of Irene's jaw tighten, and Anthea knows she's grinding her teeth in impotent rage. The sight surprisingly raises her spirits a little. Some part of her hopes The Woman hasn't been utterly broken by her defeat. It's a dangerous desire on her part; Irene may have been defanged (temporarily), but that doesn't mean she's been rendered harmless. 

"I should have listened to him."

Irene's voice sounds rough, like a well-rusted gate. Neilson must have kept her chatting for most of the evening. That would explain the thank you. "Sorry," she replies, a little confused. "Listened to who?"

Irene's blue-gray eyes swivel around to meet hers. "Jim. I should've listened to Jim."

The mention of Moriarty is enough to send a shiver down Anthea's spine. "Oh?" she manages after a slight pause.

"He gave me a great deal of information, but only two pieces of advice. I ignored them both."

Anthea waits patiently, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. It's an effort not to clench them, but she can't afford to show Irene how much she actually does want to hear this. She understands this game, and she's a damn good bottom, so she waits loose and limp for Irene to continue.

"He warned me not to fall for Sherlock. 'He's a dish, and I can see the appeal,' he said, 'but you never let your heart or… other bits, lead you. After you've won, by all means throw him on the nearest flat surface and have your way with him, but only after you've won.'" Irene folds her arm over her chest; it's so obviously defensive that Anthea has to glance away. "He was right. If I'd just waited, if I'd just…" The Woman hisses through her teeth and turns back to the window. "Ah well." Irene's lips quirk and she sighs, "can't win them all, I suppose."

Anthea blinks at her and lets a series of intense but short-lived emotions wash over her in turn: anger, disgust, dread, jealousy… love. That last one stings just a bit, mostly because she'd thought that was one emotion she'd buried long, long ago. Anthea allows herself several long, calming breaths before asking, "And the other piece of advice?"

Irene shudders visibly. "He said, 'You'll be tempted to focus on Sherlock, but remember his big brother is the real threat. He won't seem like it. Hell, you probably won't even see him until the very end. But he'll always be there, watching. You can't out-think him so don't even try, and you can't prey on his emotions because he doesn't have any. Stick to the plan, don't deviate and don't get clever.' I underestimated your employer, pet, but then I suspect I'm in good company on that front."

"Very good," Anthea replies, already wondering just how Mr. Holmes will respond to Moriarty's insights.

"I can see why you're so fond of him." Irene spares her a glance and another half smile. "I think… I think I should like to go someplace warm. I feel positively chilled to the bone." 

"I hear Fiji is quite nice this time of year," Anthea offers.

"Well." The Woman considers for a moment then grins and purrs, "I do look rather good in a sarong."


	36. "I wouldn't.  It's to do with sex."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea and Sherlock have a nice little chat.

John's blog is not only required reading for Anthea, it's also one of the highlights of her week. She often copies and pastes fragments to send on to Harry or Mr. Holmes. It's a far easier and more enjoyable means of keeping tabs on Sherlock than watching hour upon hour of camera footage of his comings and goings.

Not that they've completely given up on the video footage, mind you. It still has its uses, particularly when the younger Holmes goes haring off without one of his minders. The last time he'd pulled a runner had been in pursuit of a spectacularly unhinged Chinese illegal immigrant who had taken to destroying random (or at least seemingly random) iPods. When John phoned her, his voice all tightly reined panic, she'd supplied him with cab information, the route they'd taken and Sherlock's last known whereabouts via their CCTV cameras. John had arrived just in time to save his flatmate from being beaten to death with a PowerBook.

She got an oblique mention in the blog as well.

Sherlock managed to locate an extra microchip in the guts of the latest MP3 player fatality and put to bed a rather impressive high tech burglary ring. The press were jubilant, MI6 impressed and Mycroft more than a little proud. She thinks Mr. Holmes may have reminded the Equerry that his little brother was also responsible for the return of certain embarrassing photos of a now much chastened royal. All she knows for certain is that a certain S. Holmes is being mentioned in the same sentence as "knighthood" rather than "ne'er do well", and her employer is practically glowing.

She wants to believe they've made it through the Valley of the Shadow of Irene predominantly unscathed. Most of the time she can and does, but there are moments when she notes a certain look in Sherlock's eyes that makes her wonder. If pressed, she would describe it as a mix of curiosity, self doubt and longing. But she freely admits to herself that she could be wrong about that last bit.

It's not that she thinks he's in love with Irene. She's not even sure he's capable of that emotion roughly 99.9% of the time. Still, there's a fascination there. In her less charitable moments she chalks it up to his near constant need for flattery and attention. He may not have wanted to be caught, but she thinks Sherlock enjoyed the hell out of being pursued. He is, she's certain, one of the few people on the planet that would find being stalked by a potential sociopath both gratifying and flattering.

So she's not completely gobsmacked when Sherlock contacts her (via a note passed to her by a homeless man smelling of rum and urine) and requests a private meeting. Of course he adds 'Don't tell Mycroft!' and underlines it twice, which she thinks is just precious. As if she'd have to tell her employer anything of the kind.

They meet in Molly's tiny cramped office at St. Bart's. There is no sign of the nervous diminutive M.E. save the photo of her in a plain black cap and gown clutching a degree as if it were a lifeline. Her expression is somewhere between jubilant and petrified. Anthea supposes that's an emotional space Molly inhabits with some regularity.

Sherlock bursts into the office in a flurry of coattails and windblown curls. He has that manic look about him that says John's spent several nights with his latest soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend and Sherlock's running on an insomniac's second wind. His long hands are shoved into his coat pockets so she won't be able to see them trembling. Sometimes the man is endearingly obvious. "I've asked you here -"

"Oh, I know this one," she cuts him off with a bright smile. "You want to know about Irene."

He stills so abruptly and thoroughly that Anthea is actually a little startled. Two narrowed gray eyes flit from her face to her hands to the part of her body not hidden behind Molly's desk. She lets him read what he wants to there, would be hard pressed to stop him doing so, really. When his expression shifts from stony to superior he says, "You're still in love with her. Does Harry know?"

"And you," she returns without missing a beat, "hope Irene is still in love with you."

And for the first time in recorded history Anthea realizes she's gotten the better of Sherlock Holmes. He very clearly realizes it too and is profoundly annoyed at having let his surprise slip. "I can have an interest in her without an ulterior motive."

"You can, but you don't." Anthea gazes up coyly, then returns her attention to her mobile. She lifts an eyebrow as if she were transfixed by some intensely important email, or possibly video of The Woman herself, instead of checking the latest Man U scores. "You miss her; there's no shame in admitting that."

His posture refutes her statement quite eloquently. He's glowering at an inspirational poster of a kitten hanging from a tree branch as if it were a personal affront. "I'm… curious, that's all."

"You could just ask your brother."

"No." His voice is almost as bleak as his eyes as he gazes over at her, "I really couldn't."

She can't really argue the point, but part of her almost wants to simply to see how far she can push Sherlock before he storms off in a huff. But to be honest she is intensely relieved that he decided to come to her first. After all, he could have tried breaking into his brother's office or hacking their system. It wouldn't be the first time. Instead, he simply asked. It's a refreshingly mature and responsible decision on his part and it should be rewarded. "She's in the South Pacific at present. So far she seems to be staying clear of politics, and while she's had at least three lovers she hasn't attempted to blackmail any of them or their spouses. We are… cautiously optimistic at this point."

It's probably best not to mention that all three of Irene's recent lovers have been tall, dark haired, stick thin ex-pat Brits. Irene is nothing if not consistent, at least in certain areas of her life. Sherlock is, and will remain, "The Man" to her just as she is "The Woman" to him.

"You're monitoring her then?"

"Level two surveillance, yes, that's our standard procedure." Which is rather an odd statement really because there's no such thing as "standard procedure" where Irene is concerned. Still, it seems to placate Sherlock, who nods thoughtfully.

"She's… well?"

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," Anthea replies carefully.

"She mentioned enemies." Sherlock sounds so distant, his body may be three feet away from her but his mind is somewhere in the South Pacific she suspects. "I was of the opinion she wasn't simply referring to you lot and the Americans."

"No," Anthea agrees and takes her time with her reply. There are two levels of danger in this particular conversation. The first relates to how much information she is legally at liberty to share. The second is wholly related to Sherlock and his exclusive, somewhat unpredictable brand of personal honor. He may have been angry enough the night Irene bested him to pretend her imminent demise wouldn't bother him in the slightest, but he's had time to think now and, God help them all, quite possibly _feel_ as well. Anything she tells him will be processed through a computer-like brain with all the buried chivalric impulses of a mama's boy combined with the pragmatism and foresight of a toddler. "Irene does have many enemies." That's a simple enough fact and therefore safe, she hopes. "But without her phone she has no real power to indict or blackmail any of them."

"Nor any way to keep them from harming her should my brother act on the contents of her phone."

Damn.

"True. However, Mycroft did take pains to keep his dealings with her as quiet as possible. And her own personal 'no fly zone' should keep her well away from the worst of those wishing her harm." 

"It's not my brother that worries me." He doesn't need to mention Moriarty's name. It hangs there between them in the stuffy little office regardless.

Anthea puts her own mobile on the desk and leans on her elbows. "We didn't simply drop her into a viper's nest unarmed and wash our hands of the whole thing." Even if Irene had more than earned such treatment several times over. "She has access to her funds, well some of them, monitored locations and the brains and experience to get herself out of almost any situation that might come up. So long as she behaves herself, within reason of course, there's no reason she should come to a sticky end."

He digests that for a few seconds, no doubt running it all through some mental lie detector based on the position of her hands and dilation of her eyes. "Should I assume Great Britain to be part of her 'no fly zone'?"

Anthea rests her chin on one hand and replies, "That would be a safe assumption. It does keep her well away from Mr. Moriarty." And you, she thinks.

"I very much doubt physical distance would hamper dear old Jim if he were determined to do away with her." He seems conflicted by that; it's part concern for Irene's well-being and part delight in a sufficiently dangerous, thus worthy, opponent. "But I see no reason why he'd find it worth the effort… unless he thought it might get my attention."

Of course they both know Moriarty needn't bother. All he has to do is make a vague threat in John's direction and he'll have Sherlock's full, undivided attention for as long as it takes to stop him. "Unlikely," she agrees amiably, and notes a text from her employer asking if Sherlock's been eating properly while John's away. She smirks and replies that the man rarely does so even with John on hand.

Sherlock's lip curls into a sneer. "My brother?"

She lets her serene smile say, 'Of course' for her. "He says a sandwich now and again wouldn't do you any harm."

"I'm quite content to let him do the eating for both of us. He is, after all, so very good at it." He tries to get a glimpse of her text screen from a reflective tray behind her.

She slips her mobile into a pocket of her tailored blazer and asks, "Was there anything else? I'm a bit pressed for time."

"I shouldn't wish to keep you from fetching Mycroft's dry cleaning. I know how tetchy he gets when his shirts aren't properly pressed."

Her smile never wavers. "Actually I'm off to fetch Harry. We've a New Year's resolution to complete this evening." He seems briefly puzzled, but she can see the wheels turning as he attempts to suss out her meaning from some obscure visual cues. She stops him with a laugh. "I wouldn't. It's to do with sex."

She thinks his eight-year-old self would undoubtedly have worn the very same expression of mild distaste and utter incomprehension when faced with the concept of intercourse. "I'll keep you up to date on Irene's well being, shall I?" Within reason, that is.

One long, pale hand hesitates just shy of her arm, but it couldn't have stopped her more abruptly if he'd roughly yanked her to a halt. His eyes meet hers almost as reluctantly. "I give her six months at best. The next body lying on a morgue table purporting to be hers will be. Mycroft may have a slightly different timetable." With that, he turns on his heel and strides out the door before she can formulate a reply.


	37. "I'm deleting most of this evening regardless."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea hosts the dinner party from hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the extraordinary length on this one, it kind of got away from me. I started to think I was done and then Sherlock would get all snarky and off I went on a tangent. Anyway, this one will have to tide you all over until after the holidays I'm afraid as I doubt I'll get any more posted until after the New Year. Enjoy. Again let me know if I've screwed anything up or made any dumb typos and I'll get them cleaned up ASAP.
> 
> Oh and happy holidays, everyone!

Anthea stares at the roasted chicken with its jaunty little sprigs of rosemary and finds herself rather envying it. After all, it's comfortably deceased, well cooked and nicely presented. It doesn't have to make small talk.

Greg Lestrade shifts in his chair and smiles weakly. "Sorry, again, I really wasn't thinking."

The wine bottle he and his wife Jean presented when they arrived at Harry's front door sits reproachfully on the sideboard. For a moment he'd clearly debated just leaving it on the front stoop before all but shoving it into Anthea's hands. Jean had rolled her eyes at the time, now she mutters an annoyed, "Hardly the first time for that."

"So," Sherlock drawls from his position at the head of the table, "how's the exercise regimen going… Jean?" He puts just enough emphasis on her given name to catch and hold the tall, elegant woman's attention.

Clearly Sherlock knows about Mrs. Lestrade's little fling with the P.E. instructor. Clearly he wants to make sure she knows he knows. Her lips spread into a brittle smile, but her dark brown eyes promise Sherlock a slow, painful death. "Fine." Her voice is clipped and she twists her chocolate pearls around one perfectly manicured finger. 

Sherlock's answering smile is entirely too bright to be believable. "Neat."

Greg slumps a little and absently straightens his pale blue checked tie. His face has the defeated look of a man desperately trying to ignore reality for as long as humanly possible. Anthea can't really blame him; the woman looks as if she's just walked off a runway in Milan. She's a little over six feet tall in her heels, wrapped in Dior and practically dripping disdain for her surroundings. Jean and Irene would either try to murder one another or agree to rule the world together in short order.

John belatedly realizes what's going on, straightens in his chair and loudly announces, "Wow that chicken smells delicious, Harry!" 

"Can't take the credit I'm afraid." Harry leans over and gives Anthea a one-armed hug before dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. "Fortunately my girlfriend's not only gorgeous, but a damn fine cook as well."

"Reminds me of Clara's…" John's voice stumbles to a painfully obvious halt then begins backpedaling wildly, "…I mean, you remember Nana's goose? That was…" He clears his throat and plasters on the third utterly unbelievable smile of the evening. "Our, um, grandmother was a very fine, uh, cook. I think she left you some of her recipes, didn't she?"

Harry goes stiff and unhappy before Anthea can begin to process which part of his meandering dialogue set her off. "She did. Clara took them when she left."

"Oh." Her brother seems to be looking around the table for some sort of a lifeline. Sadly, Greg is focused on fiddling with his wedding band, Jean is all but choking herself with her pearls and Sherlock has turned his all too penetrating attention to Anthea. John deflates just a little and locks his eyes on the serviceable forest green stoneware sitting before him on the table. "Right."

"Well," Harry grunts, eyeing the wine worryingly, "it wasn't as if I was going to be able to do anything with them."

It's almost shocking how much Anthea wants a bomb to explode spectacularly in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. Or perhaps a nice, juicy little land war might helpfully break out in the Baltic. Anything to give her a viable excuse to flee the dinner party of the damned in such a way that Harry will deign to speak to her after a day or two of fuming. The worst part is that she's almost certain Mr. Holmes would arrange such a thing if she asked nicely. And she's just a horrible enough person to really, really want to ask.

"Greg," she says, breaking the tense silence to the obvious relief of everyone with the possible exception of Sherlock, "could you do the honors?" Anthea carefully hands him the carving knife. She'd have asked the younger Holmes, but has no particular desire to see their supper dissected at the dining table.

He grins, back on more certain ground. "I'd be delighted."

"Greg," Jean puts in, a softly restraining hand on his wrist, "perhaps John should do this. You always make such a mess of Easter dinner."

"Speaking of messes…"

And God bless John Watson for seeing the imminent danger posed by those three words uttered with almost bland disinterest by the world's first consulting detective. He quite bravely steps between them and the civilians at the table. "So I'm utterly stumped on a title for the latest blog entry. I've been trying to bounce ideas off Sherlock…"

"I seem to recall you pestering me with a litany of increasingly inane puns related to bachelorhood but I'd hardly call that…"

"So anyway," John says, voice rising just enough to effectively drown out his flatmate's posh baritone, "the case was just brilliant…"

Sherlock spares his friend a slant-eyed glare. "If by 'brilliant' you mean utterly commonplace and far better suited to the vestigial intellects of what we laughingly refer to as our police force… No offense, Lestrade," he adds the apology absently enough to make it clear just how utterly insincere it truly is.

"Oh, none taken." 

His flatmate might be unaware of the dark sarcasm inherent in that response, but John wilts visibly. He recognizes the grim set of Greg's mouth and precisely what it means. Anthea hopes the D.I. won't be petty enough to send Anderson and Donovan on the inevitable drugs busts that will ensue over the next few weeks. Sherlock has certainly earned it but poor John hasn't. 

If Lestrade is a bit more enthusiastic in his carving of the chicken than is absolutely necessary no one mentions it.

Anthea's mobile buzzes in her pocket, and for one brilliant, giddy moment she thinks escape might just be possible. As surreptitiously as possible she pulls it out and glances down at the screen. _'Sorry to miss dinner, everything going well? –M'_

'You bloody well know it isn't,' she thinks but doesn't text. After all it isn't his fault he was far too busy, and sensible, to accept her invitation. _'As well as can be expected, sir.'_

_'Oh dear, perhaps two tickets to whatever sporting match Inspector Lestrade favors might smooth things over a bit? –M'_

They'd best be damn good tickets. _'It might, sir.'_

When she glances up she notices everyone watching her with varying degrees curiosity, envy and annoyance. The mobile slips soundlessly back into the pocket of her cardigan. "Sorry." She says it because she should at least pretend to be contrite; there'll be no living with Harry otherwise. "Quarterly budgets are due on Friday next. I was lucky to have the evening to myself. My employer wasn't as fortunate or he'd have joined us."

Sherlock snorts inelegantly and eyes her again as if he's attempting to work out who Mycroft is currently having assassinated or which nation's government he's plotting to have overthrown. She blanks her face and adopts the mildly bemused mindset that has helped her weather awkward work-related situations in the past. _'I happen to need to have roughly two hundred bodies cremated in rather a hurry,'_ and _'Why yes that was a tragic turn of events for the Bolivian ambassador's bodyguard. A sniper rifle, you say?'_ spring immediately to mind. A sniper rifle, she can't help thinking, would be bloody welcome at the moment.

For their next tête-à-tête maybe she'll take John to a firing range. 

"Anyway…" John tries again to resuscitate some sort of safe, sane thread of conversation. "The, uh, the case involved an honest to God baron…"

"Baronet," Sherlock snips as Greg starts filling plates with slightly mangled slices of roast chicken. Sherlock has correctly deduced that he will be served last, if he's lucky.

"Right, baronet. Bit of a tosser to be quite honest. Anyway, he's jilted at the altar…"

"He wasn't jilted at the altar, he was jilted at the reception well after the ceremony was complete." Sherlock is becoming decidedly more waspish the longer Greg ignores his empty, outstretched dish. "If you intend to bore us with a verbal summation of our latest all too pedestrian case you might at least get the facts straight." He stands up abruptly and all but shoves his plate under Lestrade's nose. The DI gazes heavenward, presumably for strength, before snatching it away from the younger man. 

"What mystifies me is why you'd feel the need to share this story in the first place given that the people currently sitting at this table comprise the vast core of your blog's long term readership. Telling them what happened would seem to make the process of blogging rather redundant. Given that you've already written it up I fail to understand your logic. Unless, of course, you're still listening to that sorry excuse for a therapist, which would seem a complete waste of time as I effectively 'cured' you within the first few hours of our acquaintance. Lestrade, don't be stingy with the potatoes."

Greg rather viciously slaps a spoonful of mashed potatoes directly on top of Sherlock's chicken. The detective frowns at the messy pile of food, then back at Lestrade before accepting the plate grudgingly. He does, miraculously, refrain from further comment. Instead he sits back down and focuses almost obsessively on sorting potatoes from chicken and peas. The process is meticulous and almost hypnotically mesmerizing to watch.

Anthea frees herself from the spell of Sherlock's latest bout of OCD and focuses on John, who's gone both still and silent. She wonders if his current all too carefully blank expression is the same one he's worn on the three occasions (that she's aware of) in which he's taken a human life. She's discovered over the years that Sherlock's anger is as explosive and vicious as a supernova, all light and heat and intense, vast destruction. John's fury can be overlooked by the unwary. It's quiet and cool, narrowly focused like the sight of a gun. Anthea thinks that's why her instincts always point her towards John when assessing the threat level in any room they're in together. 

"God, you really are a complete fucking twat, aren't you?" Harry's voice is a bit ragged, as if she's clutching every word tightly to keep herself from slugging Sherlock square in the face. "Sorry, John," she adds belatedly and somewhat insincerely, "but Jesus…"

"No," he replies, managing a grimace-like smile, "you're not actually wrong about that. Though he's usually only this bad when his brother's nearby. I've no idea why he feels the need to act like such a raging tit at a dinner party, but…"

Sherlock's head pops up, and he scoffs, "This so called 'dinner party' is really a thinly veiled attempt by your sister to work out whether or not I'm good enough for the older brother she so clearly resents yet still feels oddly protective of after his return from Afghanistan. Oh, and subsequent mental health issues, of course. She believes this is both necessary and justified due to the all too common but utterly erroneous conclusion that we are shagging one another."

John groans a mortified "Jesus" into his hands.

"Damn, now I owe Anderson a tenner," Lestrade mutters.

"Why her girlfriend hasn't corrected this misunderstanding, rather encouraged it somewhat passively, may simply be due to habit. After keeping so many secrets for my brother, it may be difficult for her to share even mundane truths with those purportedly closest to her. That's why Lestrade and his serially unfaithful wife were invited, to give the entire affair a certain degree of plausible deniability. Had we attended on our own, the reality of this little farce would have been painfully obvious even to you, John."

"How dare you…"

Jean gets no farther in her only partially justifiable outrage before Sherlock sneers, "Oh please spare us, the only one at this table who was previously unaware of your infidelity was Harry." He pauses just long enough to blink lazily at Anthea. "Another little secret between the one purportedly happy and devoted couple in attendance."

Anthea decides right there and then that Sherlock has just deduced his way out of a slice of her obscenely decadent peanut butter and chocolate cream pie.

"Right," John says, then gives himself a little shake and repeats it again a little more forcefully, "right." He stands stiffly, gives his navy jumper a little tug and sighs. "I think I'd best be off. I'll be at Margaret's. As in Margaret…" He addresses the next bit to his sister, " _My girlfriend_. The woman I am currently in a _sexual_ relationship with."

Harry rolls her eyes and blows her fringe from her face. She needs a haircut soon, Anthea thinks. She'll mention it later.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock mutters, still crouched over his plate as if it were a crime scene. "You've re-established your heterosexual bona fides quite sufficiently."

John turns on him and growls, "No fires, no bombs, no risky chemical experiments, and so help me if the dishes aren't done when I get back I will confiscate your microscope until such time as you remember how to act like a normal, responsible adult!"

With a glare Sherlock grumbles, "Yes, Mother." The dishes will still be in the sink when John gets home tomorrow. If there's still a home to come back to, that is. Anthea wouldn't put it past Sherlock to burn the place to ash just on principle.

John stares at the ceiling for a count of three then puffs out his cheeks, growls, "Dishes!" and stomps off.

"We should be going, too." Anthea's actually quite stunned Jean made it as long as she did. "I'm really very sorry…"

"Not as sorry as you will be in roughly three months time when your pregnancy will be obvious enough that even Lestrade can't pretend it away." 

Jean goes white, then crimson before leaning over the table. "You know, it's just too fucking bad you didn't overdose years ago and save us all a load of grief, you fucking freak. Not for lack of trying, though, eh?"

Her husband grips her arm and pulls her back gently but firmly. His own expression is a bit shell-shocked. But there's a calm beneath it that tells Anthea he will go home, pack his things and start looking for a nice flat tomorrow. In his own ridiculously unhelpful fashion Sherlock was trying to aid Lestrade, or at least protect him from further hurt. Still, there's a time and a place and this was neither. She'd try to explain that to him, perhaps appeal to his conscience, but John has stormed off taking Sherlock's sad little excuse for a moral compass with him.

There is a somewhat more unsettling question, of course. She knows that Detective Inspector Lestrade underwent a vasectomy six years prior because she's had a look at his medical records - standard procedure where Sherlock's minders are concerned. She shudders to think what evidentiary trail led Sherlock to that same conclusion.

"Did you know your brother's flatmate is a junkie?" Jean's voice has gone shrill as she turns her dark, bloodshot eyes on Harry, "Greg's already done two drugs busts since they moved in together. Is that the kind of man your brother should be living with?"

"Yeah, we're off." Lestrade is now rather insistently tugging on Jean's slender arm and casting hopeful glances at the front door.

"Thanks for coming!" Anthea chirps, waving her fork absently as they collect their jackets from the hall tree. 

Harry is just staring at the wreckage of their dining table with the sort of wide-eyed disbelief of a disaster victim. It's her first Sherlock-class hurricane. They'll be cleaning up the debris for ages.

"I think…" Harry rubs a hand over her face and starts again, "I think I'll just go for a bit of a walk."

"…to the nearest pub," Sherlock mumbles helpfully around a mouthful of rosemary chicken.

"Don't," Harry growls, "don't you dare judge me, you ass. If you ever, I mean ever, drag John into that hard drugs shit, I swear…"

"He's just back from Afghanistan; if he were going to develop a drugs habit I should think he'd have been far more likely to do so there, don't you? I mean heroin's as plentiful as bread, more so in some regions."

"How," Harry is addressing her girlfriend this time, "have you gone all these years without shooting this twat in the head?"

"Immense self control."

Harry mutters something profoundly obscene under her breath before following the Lestrades out.

And then there were two.

Anthea picks at the contents of her plate absently and considers stabbing Sherlock somewhere non-lethal with the carving knife. It is only the sheer drudgery of the paperwork she'd face afterward that stays her hand. "You couldn't possibly have waited until after the pudding?"

"It was far more expedient this way," he huffs, dropping his fork and any pretense of interest in the meal. "It's not as if you were enjoying the small talk either and it might have taken them all hours to go. You can't really have expected me to sit through that willingly. I could practically feel neurons expiring from sheer boredom."

"You were the one who wanted to meet without your brother catching wind of it," she reminds him primly, picking up the platter and carrying it into their slightly less than tidy kitchen. The large butcher block island is the only available space for it currently so she sits it down and gazes bleakly around the mess. It's astonishing how apt a metaphor it is for the state of nearly every relationship Sherlock has had contact with this evening. She'll start tidying things up on both fronts tomorrow. For now what she really needs is a piece of peanut butter and chocolate cream pie.

Anthea pulls her greatest culinary achievement to date from the refrigerator and grabs a fork. She'd feel embarrassed to be eating this right out of the tin but it's only Sherlock. Once you've seen a man passed out in his own sick, high on God knows what chemical concoction, it's difficult to feel much shame around him.

"Are you going to tell me your news or must I wait through your inevitable diabetic coma first?"

"It would serve you right if I did make you wait," she returns, giving her fork a rather lascivious lick. The pie is every bit as amazing as she'd hoped. It's almost carnal. 

She'd drag this out, but honestly, devoting any more time than necessary to Sherlock strikes her as a piss poor way to spend a Friday evening. "She's off the grid."

He goes as stiff and intense as a hunting hound. "When?"

"Forty-eight hours ago, officially, though I was getting a little concerned at least a day before."

"Damn." He begins pacing a tight little loop around the kitchen island. "What's Mycroft's take?"

She scoffs around a mouthful of pie.

Sherlock flaps a hand at her on one of his rotations around the island. "It was rhetorical. If my brother were prepared to act on this, you and I wouldn't be having this discussion, would we?"

That's a rhetorical question as well, Anthea assumes.

"Whose company was she keeping before…"

"A ridiculously wealthy Kuwaiti businessman." She'd given up on her Sherlock-a-likes two weeks prior from what Anthea can tell. "He has ties to several known jihadist groups as well as a human trafficking organization. But there doesn't seem to have been any contact with either in the recent past." She'd almost convinced herself this is all some weird coincidence and Irene and her Kuwaiti paramour will turn up well rested and shagged rotten as soon as his yacht returns to harbor. Almost.

"I need more data. If I could look at your files…"

She laughs straight in Sherlock's face. His expression goes from wheedling to prissy in the span of a heartbeat and he finally stops his monotonous motion. "How am I meant to find her with this paucity of information?"

"You're not." Anthea slams her fork down on the counter, pie momentarily forgotten. "I will track her down using my not inconsiderable resources…"

"You mean my brother's resources."

"And you will bugger off until I do."

"Will I?" Sherlock's smirk is downright eloquent.

"Tell me, Sherlock, do you speak Arabic?"

His frown is also quite eloquent.

"How about Pashto? No? Well surely you have some MI6 or CIA contacts in the area who could assist you… oh, wait, no, your homeless network only extends as far as Brighton." She can admit she's descended into snippy at this point, but goddammit, if he gets it into his head to dash off to the South Pacific there will be hell to pay. Complete and utter bloody hell that will make Bond Air seem like a pleasant Sunday afternoon by comparison.

"So I'm meant to just twiddle my thumbs until the same incompetents who lost her trail somehow miraculously find it again?"

"You're meant to wait until I work out what's going on. At the moment we've no idea whether or not Irene has disappeared on purpose. She's a grown woman of means and extremely exotic tastes, and until I have some evidence of foul play…"

"But by the time you do," he explodes, all gangly arms and flapping shirt sleeves, "it will no doubt be entirely too late for anything to be done. Or is that what you want? Are you really so petty…"

"Sherlock, I'd invite you go to fuck yourself but I'd probably have to give you detailed instructions in order to work it out. Not to mention diagrams. Now," she growls and leans dangerously into his personal space, causing the younger Holmes rears back, "you listen to me, and listen well, you insufferable prick. If I so much as suspect you might be planning to do a runner I will call the forces of the entire British government down upon your pasty, anorexic ass before you can say 'Extraordinary rendition'. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

His pale eyes narrow, and he's silent for several long seconds. "And if your people can't locate her?"

"Then we'll revisit this discussion… in approximately seventy-two hours time. Agreed?"

He considers it briefly and then mutters, "There was really no need to be vulgar."

"Yes well, if you think you're going to be receiving an apology any time soon…"

"It hardly matters," Sherlock sniffs, "I'm deleting most of this evening regardless."

Anthea allows herself a soft, heartfelt sigh and rubs the bridge of her nose. She really needs to ask her employer if he can teach her that little trick at some point. It would make her life so much simpler.

"Thank you." The words sound almost forced, certainly reluctant.

Blinking in surprise, Anthea asks, "For what?"

"Honesty. I must admit I was rather surprised. I'm not naïve enough to interpret it as a show of solidarity or respect; rather, I suspect it's simple pragmatism on your part. You're used to dealing with my brother, and it's not as if you'd be able to deceive him."

She's almost prepared to take that as a backhanded compliment when he adds, "You blink twice directly after a lie; it's an astonishingly obvious tell."

Has Mycroft simply been counting her blinks all these years? Anthea feels strangely betrayed. It's as if a magician has insisted upon revealing the all too mundane process behind a rather clever trick.

"How precisely are we meant to continue meeting like this? You're not thinking of throwing another dinner party are you?"

"Good God no!" she blurts out, reclaiming her fork and another bite of her decadent pie. "No, no more dinner parties."

"Mycroft would become suspicious in rather short order. He trusts you to an astonishing degree, quite frankly. We can use that to our benefit, but we'll need something more - a distraction."

"What kind of distraction?" She already knows she isn't going to like this answer.

He's fingering the little pink packets of artificial sweetener sitting in a bowl in the center of the island. He says, "I could…"

"No!" She slaps his hand like he's a naughty child and he flinches out of her reach.

"I was just…"

"No, you are not using this as an excuse for one of your binges."

He's pouting like a two year old. "Fine, what's your suggestion then?"

And suddenly it's right there, the perfect plan all laid out from beginning to end. She stiffens because it's brilliant - brutally, beautifully, immorally brilliant. Mycroft would be so proud. "Your mother's funeral."

"What?" 

"Just look into the details of your mother's funeral. Be obvious about it; you're good at that."

She's not quite sure who's more horrified at the moment. What's going through Sherlock's mind is anyone's guess, but he's gone grim and ghostly pale. She suspects she looks much the same. Betrayal has left her feeling cold, hollow and impossibly young.

"Not her death?"

He needs a bit of reassurance, and she's glad she can give it to him without the slightest hesitation. "Not her death." She takes a deep centering breath. "You focus on distracting your brother and let me worry about Irene."

"I've been distracting my brother quite successfully since I was six, I think I'll manage." He squints at her and mutters, "It's you I'm worried about. He can't know anything's amiss. You're going to have to lie to him and do it convincingly. Will that be a problem?"

She turns to stare at the cracking, fleur-de-lis tile backsplash so Sherlock can't see her eyes before replying, "Of course not."


	38. 'What's your bird doing in Karachi?'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea locates Irene and puts certain plans into motion.

'What's your bird doing in Karachi?'

A single text from Sixto is the first domino to fall, but all too soon the rest are toppling over in neat little rows. But Anthea didn't arrange them this time and suddenly she's running to catch up, to stop them before they all jumble together in a messy pile. There's a constant "tick, tick, tick" in the back of her mind like a stopwatch. It's maddening.

Mr. Holmes' reaction to the news is almost complete indifference. He listens to her report attentively before leaning forward in his chair, fingers steepled, and saying, "How very unfortunate for Ms. Adler. The Sons of the Prophet are not known for their hospitality."

Anthea is a little surprised by his nonchalance. "Should I assign a team to extract her?"

Puzzled, he asks, "Whatever for?"

And what can she say to that? The jihadists will, in all likelihood, post Irene's beheading on their website and The Woman will simply be a tragic footnote on the evening edition of BBC World News. 'Terrorists Murder Dishy Dominatrix', hardly the sort of headline to set Irene to preening from beyond the grave, she thinks.

"She could be useful." It's a weak last-ditch effort at best.

"She has been," he agrees placidly and waits for Anthea to expand on her thought. When she seems unable to do so he adds, "I'm afraid I can see no place for Ms. Adler in our organization and she outright refused a recruitment offer from our counterparts."

Anthea's mouth drops open slightly.

"Oh you didn't know? Agent Neilson is apparently far more pragmatic than I'd given him credit for. He saw potential in Ms. Adler and offered her a position. If she were as frightened as she claimed to be I can see no reason why she wouldn't have accepted it, can you?"

With a sigh she shakes her head. If it's true Irene had every opportunity to save herself but chose to leap off the nearest cliff instead. That is…not as surprising as it should be.

"We should maintain our surveillance on her latest paramour at least until we've finished supplying the Kuwaiti government with the remainder of his foreign account information. Has he returned to Manila?"

"A few hours ago, sir."

"Very well, should he stir again please be sure to alert our American counterparts. They may wish to detain him for questioning."

"Very good, sir." She turns to go but hesitates after a step or two and blurts out, "Sherlock gave Irene six months to live but he said your timetable might differ."

He blinks at her, his eyes almost painfully sharp in the burnished bronze glow of the sunset. "Four by my estimate. I should say she's currently right on schedule."

\--  
Anthea leaves a comment on John's blog from an admirer who, were one to do a bit of digging, would appear to have logged on from the Karachi Municipal Corporation building. She knows the message has been received when their standard surveillance of the younger Holmes shows him paying an unexpected visit to the Spaulding and Wilson mortuary.

Mycroft takes in that piece of information with the first hints of what passes for panic in their family. She finds herself experiencing a dreadful sort of satisfaction. A quiet buzzing tension begins to build in the office as Sherlock proceeds to the site of the funeral and then makes an alarming trip to Sherringford House.

Her employer foregoes dinner that evening to stare pensive and slightly flustered at the bank of video monitors one level down. He replays Sherlock's every move, his slightest expression, as if valiantly attempting to draw some logical conclusion from his brother's actions. Of course there is only one conclusion to come to, but she can see he's struggling to settle on a motivating factor for Sherlock's actions. If there is one puzzle to which even Mycroft Holmes' great mind must admit defeat it's the one locked away inside his enigmatic, maddening brother's chest.

When Sherlock instigates an intense row with John that sends the doctor fuming to Harry's house to claim the guest room pull-out and a fair bit of tea and sympathy, Mycroft has seen enough. He will act, needs to act, and she all but holds her breath as he attempts to make a decision. His difficulty seems to be in deciding which action on his part will lead to the least amount of collateral damage.

She wonders, a little belatedly, whether Sherlock is actually upset about Mummy Holmes being a ticket holder on Bond Air. It's a concern that probably should have occurred to her before she suggested this particular diversionary tactic. In her own defense, she's not used to worrying about Sherlock's emotional well-being any more than she's likely to fret about the average rainfall in the Congo. That's not entirely true, she might actually have a use for that average rainfall statistic.

Sherlock spends two solid hours outside Mycroft's townhouse staring balefully up at his brother's bedroom window. Mr. Holmes is forced to take a rather circuitous route to the office that morning that actually involves the Tube. He arrives looking far more harried than he ever has after a near miss with an assassin and Anthea soothes him with a fresh scone in addition to his morning tea. 

When she finds him staring blankly at the same file she'd presented to him forty-five minutes prior she says, "Sir, I have a thought." She places a small blue and red envelope on his desk and slides it across to him. It contains a first class, round trip ticket to Washington, D.C. The CIA have been clamoring for Mycroft's attention for months. Indeed they've been as persistent as a pack of overly coddled lap dogs and she's been politely beating them back with firmly dismissive emails.

It's what Sixto once referred to as a "glad-handing junket", just the sort of intensive, insincere, and utterly pointless socializing that Mr. Holmes tends to welcome in much the same manner as a nasty case of food poisoning. "One week," she says in response to his curled lip. "In the meantime I'll watch over him. Perhaps you could authorize the release of several unsolved police files from DI Lestrade. If that doesn't work I've dug up the whereabouts of Henry Knight." Mycroft's lips smooth out and twitch just slightly at the corners. "A giant demon hound and a top secret facility. If that doesn't keep Sherlock occupied nothing will."

She doesn't bother reminding him that she was instrumental in tracking Sherlock down after his last tantrum, getting him off the streets and into a treatment facility entirely on her own. They both realize that there are certain circumstances (many, far too many) under which Mycroft's presence is guaranteed to lead to mutually assured destruction. The fallout from this particular clash could well take out half of London.

He processes what she's said, and undoubtedly a great deal more that she hasn't, while fingering the ticket lightly. His eyes are off in the middle distance again for which she is profoundly grateful. She's not certain how long she could hold up under his normal scrutiny. Indeed her inner mantra, 'Don't blink, don't blink' is almost audible in its intensity. 

She needs him on that plane and by hook or crook she'll get him there. Several thousand miles and one rather impressive ocean should be enough distance to allow her to get Sherlock to Pakistan without anyone being the wiser. It's the best she can manage, and she truly hopes it will be enough.

He releases a soft, almost wistful sigh and his eyes settle lightly on hers. It's an oddly respectful glance that waits patiently just outside her thoughts rather than gliding directly into the midst of them. She finds herself profoundly unsettled by it. "Well, my dear, I suppose I shall need a few things. Could I impose upon you to pack for me? I believe it might be wiser for me to stay at the Club this evening."

"Of course, sir." Her answering smile is openly relieved. Whatever he may believe her genuine motives to be, he's decided to play along. She's never loved him more in her entire life.


	39. "I know this might be a bit sudden, but, would you consent to be my husband?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea and Sherlock come to an understanding.

"I'll be leaving for Karachi in the morning."

Anthea scrolls through two emails from Sixto and calls up her calendar software. Thursday will be…tricky at best. Perhaps she'll speak to Mandy about filling in for her again. The young woman had been exemplary as a body double during the whole prior Irene debacle. "We'll be leaving for Karachi in approximately six hours, I've already packed for you. I hope boxers are all right."

He's giving her that tight, twitchy look that generally ends, at best, in a misdemeanor conviction. "No."

She grins at him and coos, "Yes."

"I work better on my own."

"Well aware of that, yes."

Eyes narrowed he growls, "You'll only slow me down."

"Do you know what would really slow you down?" she pauses just long enough to beam at Billy who's busy fussing over a nearby table. He'd given her a somewhat ambivalent look when they'd entered Rudolpho's Italian Bistro, possibly a little upset that Sherlock was stepping out on his adorable doctor with some posh tart. She's determined to win him over before dessert. "A holding cell."

Sherlock pauses to silently calculate his chances of making it to the international terminal at Heathrow before she can lay hands on him. He keeps sneaking looks at the door and his right knee has begun to bounce annoyingly under the table. She reaches under the tablecloth to slap a hand on his thigh and he nearly leaps out of his chair. He glares at her fiercely.

"Let's set aside the question of whether or not you could run circles around me and my employees here in London and consider for a moment what you intend to do once you reach Pakistan." Anthea takes a sip of her wine and leans back in the hard wooden chair she assumes is meant to lend the place a rustic authenticity. "You don't speak any of the local languages, you have no contacts in that part of the world, you haven't even had a chance to exchange any currency. Of course you'd never leave the airport, as your passport has already been red flagged worldwide. There are a few locations that probably wouldn't cooperate with extradition procedures, but none of them would help you reach your destination in a timely manner."

Billy condescends to present them both with plates filled with alarming amounts of pasta. "Nothing but the best for you, Sherlock." His smile is a bit forced, but at least he'll meet her eyes now. "Anything else I can get you two?"

She answers him with her brightest Home Office smile and shakes her head. "Oh no, this is lovely. Thanks!"

He bobs a little, clearly aware of the tension at the table and uncertain how best to aid Sherlock. Wiping his hands on his apron he waits for some signal from the detective, while looking anxiously between the two of them. "Thanks," she chirps again when Sherlock remains stubbornly silent. Billy wanders back into the dinner crowd reluctantly.

"There are two possible outcomes, Sherlock, only one of which involves you reaching Irene in time to do her some good. If you force me to waste my time chasing you down Irene will die. That is a fact. Accompany me to Karachi and we might just save her life."

Sherlock pokes at one of his meatballs with a sour expression. "And Mycroft?"

"In Washington at present."

Both eyebrows rise at that. He'll have worked out that his brother "bravely ran away" rather than face his ire. "Harry and John?"

"I have that covered. As far as they're concerned you've gone off the grid and I'm tasked with minding you in Mycroft's absence." Fortunately John hadn't been terribly insistent on lending a hand, still miffed over their last argument. She hasn't asked for details from either party nor Harry and she doesn't intend to. It's much more fun to imagine it's a lover's spat. "We'll need to agree on just where you've been and why, but there's plenty of time to get our stories straight on the plane. Oh, and I've sent you a detailed itinerary and instructions regarding the avoidance of our CCTV cameras."

When he lights up with what she can only assume is unadulterated Holmesian glee she adds, "This will only work for the next twenty-four hours so don't get ahead of yourself. And I have a back up system in place should you attempt to use this information to ditch me." Well "system" might be too grandiose a term for asking Elias to remain on call just in case. "Don't return to 221B tonight. Wait wherever you like for the next four hours then use the instructions I've supplied you with to meet me at Heathrow. I'll be wearing a head scarf, I'd recommend you do your best to match this."

She slides a passport across the table to him. A few minutes on Photoshop have worked wonders on one of his surveillance photos. The changes are minimal but render him almost unrecognizable. The slicked back hair and spectacles give him the appearance of a nervous banker.

Sherlock's pale eyes flick up to meet hers. "Alan Sigerson?"

"You're a concert violinist on holiday." She pauses and reaches into a pocket to present him with a simple gold band. "I know this might be a bit sudden, but, would you consent to be my husband?"

He glares at the ring like it's some sort of personal indictment. "Couldn't we be siblings? Or better still travel separately?"

"No," her voice is implacable, on this she will not be moved, cajoled or bullied. "A woman traveling on her own to Karachi would attract far too much attention." Also she doesn't trust him more than an arm's length from her side any more than she would bodily toss him across the restaurant.

"A married couple will require little to no explanation and offers the most security to me. The essence of a successful operation of this kind is simplicity." Which is perfectly true as far as it goes. She doesn't bother mentioning that it wouldn't immediately occur to Mycroft to think of searching for Sherlock as one half of a couple. It will give them a slight, very slight advantage. "At any rate Sixto is already set up in Karachi as my brother Aamir. We're flying there to visit him."

"And this Sixto is in a position to assist us?"

She nods over another bite of pasta. "He'll get us to the camp and out again, the rest will be up to us."

"How much time do we have?"

Anthea grimaces and finds her appetite has waned. "Not much. The jihadists have already posted a video regarding the 'Western she-devil' they intend to execute in Allah's name. They have no reason to keep her alive for more than 72 hours at best."

Sherlock's knee starts bouncing again as he processes this information. He's probably mentally calling up flight times and realizing that hers is, in fact, the best option at present. When he goes abruptly still and leans forward she tenses automatically. "One more question. You're clearly intelligent enough to have realized that by agreeing to accompany me to Karachi behind my brother's back that you've effectively placed yourself in my power. I'll have the ability to use this information against you in future."

She doesn't deny or argue the point, merely waits patiently for him to actually ask his question.

"Why?"

A simple question on the surface but she has no equally succinct response to offer in return. Her motives in this case are sedimentary; layer upon layer of emotion, experience and training built up over the past decade. Her love for Irene may only exist as an impression in stone at this point, but fossil or no, she finds herself unable to stand by and allow The Woman to die.

Of course there's also her responsibility to keep Sherlock as safe and sane as any human could possibly be expected to (John excepted). It plays a role to be certain. But somewhere deeper down towards the bedrock of her need to pursue this is something altogether unexpected. At first she'd overlooked it, or perhaps ignored it would be the more honest description. But it bubbled up through the fissures of her mind, viscous and undeniable.

She wants to play this game, not just for Irene, but against Mycroft. She wants it more than she's ever wanted anything in her life. And she really, really wants to win.

"You're a clever lad," her voice is light and lilting, "you'll work it out." She suspects that Mycroft isn't the only one she wants best just at the moment.

Sherlock…grins. She supposes that word is near enough the manic, rictus-like expression that's bloomed across his features. Honestly, though, it's more like his mouth is being stretched on the rack. That degree of muscular tension just can't be pleasant. It reminds her of a terrified baring of teeth, as if he'd learned to smile watching nature documentaries about squabbling monkeys vying for dominance.

When she stops to think about it she has to concede that it's a very real possibility.

"Six hours," she reminds him primly and gestures Billy back over to their table. She wants a nice long look at their dessert menu. Hopefully they've got a decent tiramisu. It might well be her last for a good long time.


	40. 'I believe I have him in my sights, sir.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our heroes arrive in Pakistan and Sherlock does something...unwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I promised you all we'd get here eventually and 40 chapters later I finally come through. If you've hung in so far, thank you. I promise it'll all be over in just a few more chapters...glory hallelujah!

The eight-hour flight to Karachi is surprisingly uneventful. She expects Sherlock's lanky frame to require at least a seat and a half and is pleasantly surprised when he seems to defy several laws of physics by folding neatly and compactly into his own space. Two hours in and he's as squirmy as a five year old, so she hands him a small stack of folders clearly marked Scotland Yard and "cold case". 

It's that or tranquilizers, and she'd just as soon save those for the return trip.

She retreats into her copy of Rosetta Stone: Urdu for several blissful hours. A brief nap neatly fills the remainder of the flight and she wakes to Sherlock shaking her gently as the plane circles the runway. It may say something rather negative about precisely how her mind works that her first thought isn't 'That was nice of him', rather 'He's trying to lull me into a false sense of security'. Anthea sighs softly, she really is a terrible person, it's time to embrace that fact.

Sixto meets them at Jinnah International Airport with a somewhat subdued smile for Anthea and a jerky nod to Sherlock. He leads them out to a Nissan Sunny that looks as if it drove right off the set of a 70's television series. She eyes it dubiously until Sixto snickers and tosses her bag into the back seat. They tear off into traffic that has a decidedly Darwinian flavor to it. There are all manner of vehicles from bicycles to tractor trailers battling for every inch of available roadway.

Every bump acquaints her bottom with the springs beneath her in the sadly under-cushioned seats. Perhaps she's just getting soft in her old age but she can't help thinking fondly of the palatial grandeur of German engineering she's become accustomed to in the past decade. Anthea makes a silent, solemn vow never to take her employer's transportation standards for granted again.

They change cars in Hyderi outside a somewhat rundown apartment building and Sixto silently gestures to the familiar case in the trunk. It's an honest to God AWM. She almost reaches in to pet the case fondly but settles for giving him a quick, heartfelt grin. It's alarming how very much at home her favorite sniper rifle can make her feel.

Sherlock remains disturbingly subdued, following directions and taking in the sights, sounds and smells of Karachi like a vaguely bored tourist. He foregoes questions entirely, though whether that's down to fatigue or the fact that he's already worked out why Sixto is switching up their travel pattern to avoid surveillance, she couldn't say. Perhaps some combination of the two? It would be too much to hope this docility will last throughout the remainder of the trip.

The Sons of the Prophet are encamped in the foothills of the Manghopir mountain range just to the north of the bustling hub that is Karachi. Well, "encampment" might be something of an exaggeration; and perhaps she's seen one too many Hollywood films but she's…disappointed. She'd had visions of Lawrence of Arabia, caravans and sumptuous exotic tents. The reality consists of a few dilapidated shanty-style buildings and army surplus tents. It's less "Arabian Nights" and more "Post Apocalypse", and she's astonished this rag-tag little band has been as successful as they have. 

Of course receiving financial support from several well-funded oil-producing nations and technical support from Britain's real life answer to a James Bond villain might explain at least part of it. 

Perched on a rocky outcrop less than half a mile away she lays flat on her belly, her khakis blending in like inadvertent camouflage. Everything around her is tan, the stones, the earth, even the few barren little shrubs that cling to life in the arid wilderness. The heat isn't oppressive but the air seems to be drawing every bit of moisture from her body. She considers radioing Sixto for a bottle of water but she'd never hear the end of it.

The men milling around the camp seem strangely mundane. A few carry assault weapons, but their body language is relaxed, almost bored. Their guns dangle from their hands like dog leads, loose and limp and careless. There is an overall air of apathy and disinterest that Anthea finds a bit jarring.

After all, these people are terrorists, fundamentalist zealots intent upon murder and mayhem on a global scale. Instead of hardened soldiers they seem more like bored teenagers. Some even casually drape themselves on boxes of ammunition to joke and laugh with their friends.

Sometimes the view down her rifle scope simplifies the world, blocking out distractions and giving her a singular focus that she finds difficult to replicate anywhere but the dungeon of a talented mistress. Today the exact opposite seems to be happening, her perspective is suddenly too broad. Instead of a narrow world filled with targets to be removed with a firm squeeze of her finger she's beginning to see people. She's beginning to see…oh hell.

All too familiar dark curls appear above a set of crates near the young men she'd been targeting then vanish before she can get more than a glimpse. Maybe she's wrong, maybe she's just seeing Sherlock everywhere. She reaches carefully over to activate her radio, "Brother, dear, tell me my beloved husband is still safe and sound with you."

The only response is a soft hiss and pop of static and Anthea swipes a hand over her face with a groan. And then, because her employer is a bloody fucking **psychic** the burner in her pocket vibrates. There aren't enough curses in every language she knows to begin to cover this situation.

'Any word on Sherlock?'

With a sigh she types in, 'I believe I have him in my sights, sir.'

'Not literally I hope.'

What the hell, she thinks, he can't see her blinking now. Well, hopefully not. 'Not exactly, no. How's the trip so far?'

There's a slight pause, and she smirks because this is about as close to an exasperated rant as she's ever experienced with him. 'Let us simply say if I ever voluntarily agree to such an excursion again you'll need to set up an appointment with our mental health department.'

She snickers. 'I'll see you on Monday, sir. Don't forget to bring me one of those charming little collectible spoons.'

'Of course, my dear, best of luck.'

There are a few other emails she pauses to look over, then triple checks that her current mobile still believes it's transmitting from a little coffee shop in the East End of London before sliding it back into her pocket. She'd try Sixto again but she's reasonably certain he won't be in any condition to respond. Breaking down her rifle she packs up and shimmies back off the outcropping as carefully as she can.

At least it's a downhill trudge to the car. She brushes dust from her clothing a little more enthusiastically than she needs to, all the while keeping up a constant litany of grumbling complaints. She hates the heat, the way her sinuses feel as if they've been sandblasted, the grit that's worked its way into her undergarments, the all too practical but bloody hideous hiking boots on her feet, but most of all Sherlock fucking Holmes, bane of her existence.

It would be all too easy to just climb into the car with Sixto, after she releases him from the trunk or handcuffed to the steering wheel or wherever Sherlock's left him, and just drive away. Leave the little shit to his own devices, see how he likes life without his brother's benevolent, if overbearing protection. Sherlock may chafe under the imagined yoke of Mycroft's vigilance but he has no idea how often it's made the difference; turned what might have ended with bruises and broken bones into a softer, gentler landing. He doesn't appreciate all they've done for him, can't and won't as long as he remains cradled and coddled as he has been all his life. This might well be the wake up call the little wanker needs.

But…

But then how does she face her employer again? And that is, sadly, where her whole happy little revenge fantasy unravels rather unpleasantly. Because she's seen Mycroft sitting in Sherlock's hospital room looking as if the entire world would end if his little brother's thin chest should fail to rise and fall evenly.

The same man who can order up an assassination as serenely as most people ask for a cup of tea would, she knows without a doubt, unravel completely at the news of his brother's death. 

And the absolute worst part of it all is that Sherlock knows this, is undoubtedly counting on it. Whatever little plan he might have he's smart enough to know he'll need some sort of back up. He might be brilliant and have the luck of the Devil himself, but no one could reasonably expect to just walk out of a terrorist camp with an exhausted, unarmed prisoner in tow.

Surely even Sherlock can see that. 

Surely.

When she arrives back at the car Sixto looks suitably chagrined. He's currently zip-tied, hand and foot, beneath a somewhat desiccated, scrubby tree. At least Sherlock left him in the shade, she thinks, leaning down to cut her friend free. "Honestly, I was only up there for a quarter hour."

"Where was he keeping the bloody zip ties, that's what I'd like to know," Sixto growls, working circulation back into his limbs. "Then again, perhaps not."

They head back to the car for a protein bar (wretched) and bottle of water (wonderful). Sitting on the hood, Sixto posits philosophically, "You know Neilson would snatch you up in a hot second…should you decide on a career change."

She glances over at him, struck by how miserable she appears in the reflection of his sunglasses. With a shrug, she turns her attention back to the endless, rugged nothingness around her. Some might find the landscape appealing in a stark, unforgiving way, but to her it's nothing but barren wasteland. She's never felt more intensely homesick in her life.

"I can't go back without Sherlock and I am bloody well going back." There can be no doubt about this; she's going back to the job she loves, to her cozy little flat, her obscenely decadent BMW, her multi-thousand pound shoe collection, hilarious dinners with Dr. John Watson and most of all to Harry. Wonderful, mad, sexy, annoying Harry. "I have to stay and see this through."

She's giving him an out, one that will allow him to drive away from this situation and never look back. He should do it, it's the sane option and it's not as if he owes her…at least not to this degree. The lanky man just smiles as he chews his peanut butter protein bar then says, "Ah well, once more for old time's sake then. So how are we going to pull his worthless ass out of this one?"

Maybe they're racking up scads of positive karma each time they save Sherlock from a messy end, it's an awfully nice thought anyway. She taps her rifle case with one toe and replies, "I'll go back up, you take the car as close as you safely can. Stay by your radio and wait for my word." Pausing, she gives him a sidelong glance. "Your sources were sure the video team are arriving tonight."

"Certainty can be a bit…subjective out here, but they seemed pretty convinced."

His words bring to mind images of dark, hellish prison cells and men whose sadistic tendencies have been put to very specific, and arguably useful purposes.

"I'll lay down cover fire, take out the executioner and anyone between Irene and Sherlock and the Eastern edge of the camp."

"When the firing starts I ride in like the cavalry, presumably." He sighs and pats the hood of the car fondly. "She's been a good old thing, this one, it'll be a shame to have to ditch her tomorrow." Apparently he's decided they're going to survive the night, Anthea's always admired his optimistic streak. "Right, so how do we let Sherlock and The Woman know which way to run?"

Anthea grins and ruffles her friend's hair playfully. "Don't you worry your pretty little head." She kicks the rifle case again and smiles. "I'm sure I'll think of some way to get the message across."


	41. "I shot near you, not at you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Anthea and Sixto save the day...again and Anthea comes to an unsettling realization.

A jaunty Bhangra tune growing ever louder announces the arrival of the video team. They're speeding across the landscape, the headlights bouncing around like glow-sticks at a rave. They wisely shut off the music before coming to a dust-shrouded halt nearby the camp. They unload their gear quickly, with the ease of long practice.

Not one of them is over the age of 30, and Anthea belatedly realizes she hasn't seen a single gray hair since she took up her post. The life of an international terrorist doesn't draw in many of the older set, she supposes, nor do its younger recruits realistically look forward to a happy retirement. Still, she'd expected to see a few older advisors or leaders.

But that's not how the modern terrorist cells work. Who needs a venerable veteran of the Afghan Mujahadeen or fiery Imam on site, and therefore vulnerable to capture or worse? Just have them record their orders or motivational speech, save it to a flash drive as an encrypted file and send it off with one of thousands of faithful couriers.

It was, after all, how they had managed to so successfully undermine the Sons of the Prophet once Mr. Holmes had broken their cipher. That is, until Irene had happened along and kicked, stomped and otherwise scattered all their careful work like a gleefully wicked child demolishing a sand castle. Of course they'd known something would bring the whole thing tumbling down eventually, but Anthea really wishes it weren't down to someone she's had sex with.

Leaning away from her rifle sight for a gulp of water she decides to do a quick radio check. "I've got visuals on the video team. Won't be long now."

"Copy." Sixto sounds a bit bored but she knows he's sitting in the car with hands at ten and two, tapping out a nervous rhythm on the wheel. He's alert and as ready as he'll ever be to drive right down into the very heart of a terrorist camp like the Charge of the Light Brigade. She doesn't begin to know how she's going to repay him for this.

The team, for all their youth and obvious jocularity, are surprisingly efficient. They have a camera and sound system set up in a matter of minutes. One of the cell's trucks has been conscripted as a light source, another's battery is turned into a back up power source. She wonders if they do this sort of thing often enough to make it seem routine. She wonders how anyone could possibly consider beheading a woman in any way "routine".

Not that she's exactly squeamish, mind you, after all she's crossed enough of her own moral lines in the sand by this point in her life. Dead may be dead in the final analysis, but a bullet to the brain seems infinitely kinder than a sword to the neck. Rationalization? Perhaps, but it's one she can comfortably live with at the moment.

A small, delicate figure shrouded entirely in black is tugged into the pool of light before the camera. It's unclear whether she's forced to her knees or simply drops there in boneless despair. Anthea settles her rifle sight on the pale oval face, as familiar to her as her own. Irene keeps her eyes downcast and her mouth rather sensibly shut, two decisions that have undoubtedly kept her alive and relatively unharmed to date.

She seems more resigned than openly frightened, her face all the paler for the ebony frame of her hijab. Anthea can't help thinking that covered head to toe as she now is Irene probably feels the way most women would stark naked in a similar situation. Strip her bare and she'd be smirking, head held high, assured of her own sexual invincibility. Clothed as she is they've quite effectively rendered The Woman powerless, which is rather the point, Anthea supposes.

A man, face covered, and also dressed head to toe in black steps into the pool of light followed by another, taller figure carrying a wicked looking sword. Anthea tenses a little, then blows out a lungful of air slowly to force herself to relax. She leans into the cheek rest and settles herself against the rifle; the suppressor is in place as is her clip, she's ready.

The first man addresses the camera crew and receives a thumb's up from the videographer. Showtime.

He hands something to Irene, which she reaches for like a lifeline. It's a mobile, of course, the cornerstone to the edifice that is The Woman. She's sending a text…her last words. Anthea almost reaches for her own mobile before she remembers the message can't possibly be for her.

There is a span of time between Irene's final texted words and all hell breaking loose. It is comprised of a thousand individual actions; the terrorists' triumphant message to the brethren, the executioner raising his sword high, Irene dropping her head in final, dreadful submission and Anthea breathing in and out as she sights the center of the swordsman's forehead. And then everything just seems to stop, all movement, all sound, even the simple involuntary act of breathing.

In that timelessness Anthea feels her finger begin to contract on the trigger but before she bring enough pressure to bear something stops her. Her finger freezes responding to an instinct she can't even begin to name. Something isn't what it seems. Something isn't quite right.

And then Irene's head snaps up and she twists to exchange a look with her executioner and Anthea knows. The expression on Irene's face is ecstatic, joyous, transcendent; there is only one person who could possibly be responsible for that. Sherlock. Suddenly time starts moving forward again so quickly Anthea swears she feels something akin to whiplash. 

Of course he would arm himself with the most dramatic, utterly useless weapon available. Not that he doesn't look rather magnificent as he slashes out at the nearest terrorists like some sort of Arabic pirate captain, mind you. Still, he's brought a sword to a semi-automatic gunfight and he and Irene have only seconds until the shocked jihadists work that out.

She realigns her aim and sends the former star of The Karachi Decapitation Hour to his maker with a clean shot just above the brain stem. Before his body has a chance to collapse she's lined up and eliminated three more targets on the truck. Her weapon gives a soft, almost polite cough as she removes a man running into the fray, rifle lifted. He snaps around and collapses almost gracefully as Irene turns to grab Sherlock and lead him away from the battle. At least someone down there has kept their head.

Sadly they are going in entirely the wrong direction and that won't do at all, so she reloads grimly and turns her attention from the general panicked confusion of the camp to the fine art of Sherlock herding. She sends a pair of bullets into the ground a half-foot in front of him making him pull up short in a flurry of black fabric. While he pauses she takes out one more nearby terrorist a little less neatly than she would have liked. Still, his arterial spray has gotten Irene's attention as well as Sherlock's and The Woman begins tugging him back the way they came with enthusiasm.

The detective says something, his body language stiff and resolute, then he points in the same southern direction emphatically. Irene is just as emphatic, jaw jutting forward obstinately. Apparently she doesn't see today as a particularly good day to die, she wants out of the madness of this camp and is tired and desperate enough to make her Anthea's greatest ally.

Putting one more bullet into the ground at Sherlock's feet seems to tip the argument in Irene's favor. She silently decides if he doesn't start moving in the right direction soon she's going to see whether or not a graze might be more inspirational. And honestly, inspirational or not, it would feel bloody wonderful.

He turns and glares rather disconcertingly in her direction, then with a disgusted head shake, follows Irene back toward the abandoned video equipment. He pauses there and looks around as if waiting for some sign from above regarding where to go next. Fortunately Sixto swerves into view kicking up an impromptu smokescreen as he slams on the brakes. He's clearly bellowing for them to get inside and Irene doesn't need to be told twice, flinging herself into the back seat with Sherlock close behind.

Anthea reloads calmly and covers their retreat. When she's sure they're well away she aims one last time at the video camera and laptop it's connected to, then squeezes off several more rounds. The technical livelihood of the videographers is quickly reduced to its component parts. It makes her feel a bit better, but she knows it's possible the file was either backed up or even uploaded to the net. But she can do nothing about that at the moment, that's why she created a proper IT department, after all.

She can't see Sixto's approach, but she can hear the car's engine approaching, and that's her cue to pack up. She breaks the gun down with her usual efficiency, once again snagging the tender webbing between her thumb and forefinger and cursing under her breath. Repacking it carefully in its case, she grabs her water bottle and minces down the steep path. A bright full moon and sensible boots help her avoid a fall that might very well break a few bones, possibly even her neck. She really can't imagine how she'd begin to explain that one to Mr. Holmes.

Sixto is waiting for her at the bottom of the hill, engine idling and headlights off. She hurries over and darts into the front passenger seat, dropping the rifle case on the floor at her feet. The door barely has time to slam shut before he steps on the gas and they speed off into the wilderness. How he's able to find the access road that will, eventually, lead them back to civilization is a question she thinks best left for a later date. Preferably a point in time after she's had roughly twelve hours of sleep, a proper shower and enough strong, hot tea to make her feel marginally human again. For now she will trust that he knows what he's doing.

In the back seat Irene doffs the hijab and before anyone can stop her, chucks it gleefully out the window. Her dark locks dance loosely around her head like a nest of agitated snakes. She looks, Anthea thinks, rather too triumphant for a woman so recently rescued from the clutches of murderous jihadists. Leaning her head out the window, she closes her eyes and lets the night air wash over her with something very like ecstasy.

Anthea wishes Sherlock wasn't sitting directly behind her, she'd dearly love to see the expression on his face. "Everyone all right then?" she calls over the howl of the air pounding in through the windows.

"Wonderful!" Irene crows, then leans forward to press a warm, dry kiss to Anthea's throat just below her ear. "Though you might not leave it quite so late next time."

Anthea just snorts.

"You shot at me." Sherlock's rumble is almost entirely drowned out by the ambient noise in the car but he's near enough for her to make out the words if not the tone. A normal person might be offended, hurt or even horrified at being shot…well, not so much at as near; but Sherlock has never fit even the loosest definition of "normal". If anything, he's smarting that his absurdly ill-thought-out rescue plan was overshadowed by Anthea and Sixto's successful one. 

"Yes, well you didn't leave me many options." She's both too exhausted and too mindful that he's still got a whacking huge sword, to say something a bit more cutting. She'll save those remarks for the trip home. "Also I shot **near** you, not **at** you. If I'd wanted to hit you you'd have bled out long ago."

Now it's his turn to snort.

Before she can excavate a witty retort from the depths of her weary mind a sharp whistling shriek from above sends Sherlock twisting around in his seat. Anthea's first, panicked thought is that she overlooked a missile launcher in the camp and they're all about to pay the ultimate price. The second is that they aren't nearly far enough away from the camp as it blooms into a fiery mushroom behind them. The explosive boom deafens them and rattles the car so badly Sixto has to struggle to keep it from darting off the road like a startled rabbit. 

Anthea finds herself doubled over, arms flung protectively over her head. Her ears are ringing and she's blinking away bright lingering flashes; her brain sluggishly attempting to piece together what just happened. Sherlock is babbling away behind her but his words are muffled beneath a whining blanket of Tinnitus.

She thinks she gets the gist of Sherlock's agitation when she can finally make out Sixto's face again. He should be as stunned as the rest of them, deafened and shaken and confused as hell. Instead he calmly removes a pair of earplugs and flicks on the car's headlights.

Her ears may be useless, but in the ringing whine of her mind she clearly hears her employer's dry chuckle, 'Of course, of course. Surely you realized…' Oh she should have realized, it all seems so bloody obvious now. She allows herself one last glance at the inferno in the rear view mirror before glaring resolutely into the darkness ahead.


	42. "Good-bye, Irene."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all the players are at last revealed and our heroes make their weary way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord, really long chapter. Sorry, Sherlock would not shut the hell up for love nor money. One down, one more to go, guys. Again, thanks for hanging in there with me, I promise the end is nigh.

She dreams of Sherringford House, she's standing on the black and white tiled floor wearing a tiara and holding off several faceless Sons of the Prophet with a sword. Sherlock lounges on the stairs wearing his absurd coat and an outlandish crown. "Well," he hisses waspishly, "we are married now, after all."

She waves her sword threateningly then hacks at one of the nearest terrorists, he tumbles over without a hint of real injury and another slides up into his place. "Remember," Sherlock yawns, completely disinterested in the battle going on right in front of him, "if I fall the game is over."

"Oh she's much too good to allow that," Mycroft intones, leaning over a banister directly above. "Mind that knight, dear."

Whirling around, Anthea notices Irene serenely crossing the floor straight through the terrorists. She's wearing nothing more than four inch stiletto heels and a smirk. "I believe that's check," she laughs, waving at Sherlock who glowers and studies his mobile.

When she glances up for guidance from her employer he merely shrugs elegantly with one shoulder and replies, "I thought you were handling this game, my dear. I shouldn't like to interfere just when it's going so well."

She wants to wail, fling down her sword and storm right out of the place but she can't. Instead she grips her sword more securely as Sherlock huffs in annoyance and slides gracefully behind her. "Do pay attention or we're going to **lose** and it shall be entirely your **fault**."

She knows this already, can feel it in the bubbling pit of her stomach like a geyser about to erupt. The incipient panic makes her more desperate, though, and less keenly aware of her surroundings. It's all coming apart faster than she can mend it and God Sherlock is no help at all! There must be something she can do, some move she isn't seeing, but before she can find it Moriarty walks up in an exquisite three-piece suit. He mimes holding a revolver in his hand and says, "Nice try." Before she can summon up a response he pulls the invisible trigger.

Anthea starts awake, the echo of Morarity's "Bang!" still rambling through her mind. The car has stopped at what appears to be a dock. There are a few looming warehouses and several small ships jockeying for space at the wharf. She can hear the soft sound of lapping waves through the open window and perhaps a radio news program somewhere in the distance.

She doesn't remember falling asleep, doesn't know what time it is or exactly where they are. Probably still in Pakistan? The one thing she does know is that Sixto is no longer in the driver's seat. Both he and the keys are currently missing.

Turning in her own seat she notes Sherlock slumped against he car door also fast asleep. His head is tucked down as if protecting himself from gunfire. It looks intensely uncomfortable but he seems to be sleeping peacefully. She wonders briefly if he was one of those babies who could only be lulled into slumber by an automobile in motion. Irene is tucked up against his side, one of her eyes slips open to note Anthea, then closes again.

'No help there,' she thinks, climbing out of the car as quietly as she can. The air is thick with diesel fuel and dead fish, the scents all the more cloying in the warm, still air. Despite the stench everything seems peaceful. It has the desolate feel of a business district in the wee hours of the morning.

Why did Sixto bring them here of all places, and what are they meant to do now? She'll wait another ten minutes or so then text him. If he's abandoned them she will need to work out where they are, hope Sherlock's more nefarious skill set includes hot-wiring a car, then get everyone to the airport in one piece. She has their passports, including one for her "sister", fresh clothing for each of them, and tickets straight back to London. If Sixto has some hidden agenda involving betrayal to either the Sons or the CIA…well, she still has her AWM.

"Anthea," a voice says from the darkness behind her, "how nice to see you again."

The American accent is, of course, a dead giveaway. She turns smoothly, near enough the passenger side door to duck inside and grab her rifle case if need be. Not an ideal weapon for close quarters combat and it'll do in a pinch. "Agent Neilson, fancy meeting you here."

He steps out of the shadows wearing a dress shirt and khaki pants along with a startlingly anachronistic tan pork pie hat. His stance is relaxed; his expression amiable and she can see no viable weapons. It's meant to put her at ease but she knows there could very well be snipers on any of the ships or peering through any number of darkened warehouse windows. Not to mention the possibility of a drone hovering overhead equipped with diabolically accurate Hellfire missiles.

He smiles and holds up his hands in a show of harmlessness. "I come in peace."

"I'm not certain the Sons of the Prophet would agree with that assessment," Sherlock sneers, freeing himself from both the backseat and Irene rather smoothly.

"Yes, well, we're all on the same side here. No need for things to get unpleasant."

"What," Sherlock drawls, heavy-lidded and insolent, "no payback for your repeated trips out the window? I'm disappointed."

"Let's just say it wouldn't be 'situationally appropriate' at the moment. However, the next time you stumble into my sandbox I'd recommend you come armed with more than just a scimitar, Mr. Holmes."

"Why did you destroy the camp?" Anthea's had quite enough of their little verbal pissing match, thanks. "A drone strike seems like overkill really."

"Apparently Al Qaeda's number two man was on hand at the camp; or that's what we'll tell the press and Pakistani officials at any rate. Of course the latter won't really be in a position to argue the point given all the evidence we've accumulated about this cell in the past few months. And practically on their doorstep too…"

"Why now?" Sherlock literally, and visibly hates having to ask but curiosity is eating him alive. "Why this very night mere moments after our intervention?"

The other rear door clicks and Irene slides out as if it were a Rolls-Royce and she a Hollywood starlet making her debut. "I think I might be able to answer that." She leans on her side of the car and grins impishly up at the detective. "You see I needed to depart this mortal coil once more. Troublesome, I know, but there really was no way of getting round it."

"Ms. Adler managed to obtain some very important and sensitive information regarding the current whereabouts of a certain high profile target of ours," Neilson adds, approaching Irene casually, almost as if they were old friends. "She offered it to us in exchange for certain protections and, of course, compensation."

Irene favors the American with an icy smile. "Not nearly as much as it's worth, of course. But it was really more of a good faith gesture…to my new employers."

Both Anthea and Sherlock stiffen, undoubtedly for vastly different reasons. "You're with them now?" Sherlock sounds positively venomous, almost as if he'd discovered Irene in Mycroft's bed. And that is so very much not a mental image she needs.

"A girl's got to look out for her own best interests and theirs was the most generous offer available at the time." Which Anthea thinks is part of the story, but by no means the whole of it.

"It was also the only offer available at the time," Neilson corrects Irene rather more kindly than Anthea would have expected. Perhaps he really is a good employer after all, which makes her question Sixto's change in allegiance a little less strenuously. "She contacted us shortly after arriving in the Philippines and we've been in…negotiations since."

"Was all this," Sherlock snaps as he gestures grandly around him, and Anthea takes a moment to feel profoundly grateful that he left the sword in the car, "a part of these 'negotiations'?"

Neilson and Irene wear identical smirks, how much of the past few weeks' events have been conjured up by the pair of them is perhaps best left unspoken. Anthea can comfortably live without any kind of certainty though she suspects Sherlock is borderline apoplectic at the very thought of it. Well, she thinks, he's certainly free to pursue this particular line of inquiry for all the good it's likely to do him.

"And so Ms. Adler has met her rather sad end by way of an executioner's sword." The CIA agent leans against the car beside Irene looking insufferably pleased with himself. "Certainly one of the more…dramatic finales I've ever orchestrated. Usually a car accident or drug overdose will do. But it's only the best for our Ms. Adler. Or perhaps I should say our Ms. Renel."

If Irene is somewhat disappointed in Neilson's lack of imagination regarding her new name she doesn't show it. Instead she studies her broken nails with a slight frown. Not knowing may be Sherlock's most deeply felt pet peeve, but for Irene it is and always has been imperfection. Her voice has just the slightest edge to it as she asks, "Where are we off to now, Boss?"

"We'll be heading over the border to Ahmedabad, but you two will be escorted back to Jinnah airport by your darling brother," Neilson pauses to jerk a thumb back to Sixto who's slouching a little behind him in the dark. "You should be able to make your way back to the UK without too much trouble from there. Your passports will be green lighted, of course."

"So that's it? We're meant to climb onto a plane and return to London as if nothing's happened, leaving Irene in what amounts to indentured servitude to the CIA?"

Anthea truly wishes Sherlock's latent chivalry wouldn't continually pop up at the most annoying times. Irene is clearly both pleased and intrigued, however, and asks, "Do you intend to whisk me away from my CIA overlords then?"

The expression on her face says she'd be more than game to have a go at it. A life on the run avoiding criminal masterminds, terrorists and at least two covert governmental organizations does sound right up her alley. Well, it does if Sherlock would be willing to run with her.

And damn him, he's actually considering it. Wouldn't that just be the icing on the cake at this point? Anthea's brain starts to conjure up contingencies and strategies that will allow her to, if not stay a step ahead of the two of them, at least keep up.

"Is this what you want?" he finally asks, breaking the silent spell between them. He's studying her face acutely, as if she were some fiendishly tricky violin concerto that he needs to master. Anthea knows he could spend a lifetime with each adagio and allegro of The Woman's ever-changing moods and still find himself utterly baffled.

For her part, Irene pauses because she can't quite bring herself to lie to him so directly, so obviously. What she wants, what she really wants, is standing the mere width of a car away from her with slicked back hair, a grim expression and no earthly idea how to return The Woman's love. "For now," she allows at last and turns to Neilson, her decision made.

Anthea releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She's not certain why Irene is choosing to let Sherlock go, but Anthea's profoundly grateful for it. Maybe The Woman realizes Sherlock can't feel for her what she does for him. Maybe she knows Sherlock belongs to London and John and Mycroft, always to Mycroft. 

It's not important why Irene is letting him go, ultimately all that matters is that Anthea and Sherlock will be returning to London together.

"Well," Neilson interrupts with a quick glance at his watch, "as fun as this has been you two have a flight to catch and Irene and I have a debrief, so if you'll excuse us." He gestures for Sixto to join them. "Have a nice trip home." He starts to turn then pivots to face Anthea again. "I'd send your employer my best but I'm assuming we're keeping this whole little adventure on the down low." With a jaunty salute he wanders back into the darkness of the nearest warehouse.

Anthea's hands clench so she shoves them into her pockets. Was that a threat? Very probably. Agent Neilson is many things but subtle is not generally a term she'd associate with the man. She can let him have his moment of triumph but if he actually thinks this will give him some leverage with her in the future, or worse, allow him to drive some sort of wedge between her and Mr. Holmes…well, he's going to be sadly disappointed.

Irene gives both of them a brief, tight smile and says, "I suppose this is good-bye."

Sherlock turns away from her, glares at the wharf for several seconds and grits out, "Don't get yourself killed." Then he collapses into the back seat, folding himself neatly into the space without a sound. He is very, very careful not to look in her direction.

She simply sighs, half forlorn, half annoyed and turns to Anthea. "Why does it seem we're always saying good-bye you and I?"

Anthea purses her lips, and though she may sound more like a jealous ex-lover than a highly trained and paid professional, answers, "You're the one who always says good-bye, I'm just the one who keeps hearing it."

"Well," Irene moves around the front of the car, presumably to avoid the temptation of saying something further to Sherlock, and takes Anthea's face in her two small, dust-covered hands. She leans in and kisses her almost reverentially. It's more like some arcane benediction than the passionate physicality they once shared. Anthea finds it somehow profoundly appropriate. "Why don't you say it this time, Miranda?"

So she does. "Good-bye, Irene."

The Woman's bloodshot azure eyes blink slowly, like a well-contented cat and she smiles without all the usual jagged, sharp edges. This smile is a simple one, a gentle, quiet farewell. And then Anthea watches her walk away, out of her life and into…who knows, perhaps a better one.

It will make a nice change, to know that somewhere Irene will be using her powers for good. All right, that might be pushing the boundaries of believability; but under the auspices of the CIA Irene will at least be directed towards saving lives rather than destroying them. Well, that's the hope at any rate.

Sixto intrudes upon her reverie with a soft cough and she blinks at him. "We should be off." Then he reaches in to the passenger seat and removes her rifle case. "I'll just stash this in the trunk." He eyes Sherlock's sword as he passes. "Right, give over."

Sherlock folds his arms over his chest and his chin juts forward as mulish as a five-year-old resisting bedtime. "I'm taking it with me. A souvenir."

"Just going to check that, are we? Or did you imagine it'd fit in the overhead bin?"

Anthea growls, "Honestly!" Then she reaches in and plucks out the bloody thing and all but thrusts it into Sixto's waiting arms. "No more nonsense until we're back in London. I'm really just too fucking tired for this right now." She says all this in her best "Mother is not amused" voice, which makes Sixto grin and Sherlock roll his eyes extravagantly.

The detective subsides, which tells her just how weary he truly is. Sixto tucks their assorted weaponry into what Anthea can only assume is a hidden compartment in the trunk. She trusts him to remove their fingerprints before ditching the car and weapons…mainly because she's too tired not to.

On the plus side she's reasonably certain neither she nor Sherlock will require those tranquilizers after all.

The drive back to the airport is a bit of an anticlimax really. Anthea keeps herself awake throughout by chatting with Sixto about his girlfriend, the state of the British economy and his new found passion for American basketball. Sherlock sits in the exact center of the back seat ignoring convention, safety belts and the conversation taking place in front of him. He does glower at them in the rear-view mirror, however.

Sixto helps with what little luggage there is at the curb and pulls Anthea into a close hug. He whispers, "Sorry" and releases her before she can do more than muster a watery smile. He offers Sherlock his hand and earns himself a sneer in return. Under the circumstances she'd thought it far more likely that Sherlock would take a swing at him. Indeed, she'd already started putting together a cover story to explain the detective's subsequent black eye and sprained wrist. Mycroft would have no difficulty believing that Sherlock had required some less than gentle persuasion in returning him to London against his will. 

She'll chalk it up to fatigue that he deigns to walk beside her through check-in. They don't exchange any words but given the hour it only makes them blend in with the other zombie-like passengers on the red-eye flight. All she wants is to settle into her seat and sleep until the wheels touchdown in Heathrow. Sadly, there are still a few points they need to clear up.

"So," she says as the plane reaches cruising altitude, "where did I finally track you down?"

"Toulouse," he replies, never taking his eyes from the panorama of wide blue-black sky outside his window. "Mummy kept a flat there, we used to visit for the holidays. I expect Mycroft's sold it already…she never took him, you see."

Anthea blinks. "Toulouse." She'll create e-tickets and a red flag alert for Sherlock's favorite false passport at the nearest airport tomorrow. "He'll want to know how you are…"

"Tired," he sounds it too, drained in a way that jet lag and their recent adventures can only partially explain. 

She just watches him and waits patiently, after all they're both exhausted and she doesn't believe either of them are up to an extended battle of wits. Huffing a sigh he turns to level her with a glare. "If you're asking whether or not I'm furious with my brother regarding the events of Bond Air then the answer is no…or perhaps I should say, not exactly." Both hands scrub his face for a moment before he leans back against the seat, his eyes closed and breathing even. "Mummy was dead, the exact whereabouts of her earthly remains are as immaterial to me as they undoubtedly would be to her." He pauses then cocks one eye open to glance at her. "I assume he at least put her in first class."

"Of course."

With a nod he continues, "Good. If he was determined to make her a part of this whole sordid little affair at least he had the good taste to seat her appropriately."

"So you're not furious with your brother regarding Bond Air per se, or at least 'not exactly' furious with him about it. Can you expand on that?"

"Must I?" When she just gazes at him quietly he gives her a put upon sigh. "Fine, as you're clearly incapable of working out the details with your own sad little brain." He's hoping that by being sufficiently bitchy she'll be more inclined to tell him to go fuck himself (again) than to keep pursuing this. He's sincerely underestimating her determination and patience. It doesn't take him long to work that out so he lowers his voice and mutters, "It was a test. I failed, as I almost always manage to do where Mycroft is concerned." His lips slide into a moue of distaste, he hates failing tests or anything else, clearly.

"You think Bond Air was a test…meant for you?" She knows the man is narcissistic but he's really set the bar on self-involvement with this one.

"Including Mummy was meant for me, the rest was irrelevant really." He pauses then clarifies, "It was a typically overwrought Mycroftian scheme in response to a puzzle that's been vexing him for years. The Coventry Conundrum. Do try to keep up." His head falls back against the seat, whatever he used to slick his hair down with is wearing off and a few curls are making their reappearance. "I suppose you enjoy tests, it's in your nature…as a masochist I mean."

It's funny that she doesn't for an instant believe he means it as an insult. There certainly was a time when she would have been profoundly offended by the comment, regardless of how true it might be. But he's just stating a fact as he sees it, and as he's nearer the mark than most when it comes to this aspect of her life she can't really seem to dredge up much more than mild curiosity.

"I expect he found you shortly after Irene walked out of your life and picked up where she'd left off. Not in a sexual way, or at least not in an overtly obvious one. Not," he adds with another of his mildly disgusted sneers, "that I would put such a thing beyond him, but given your own…proclivities I expect he didn't find it a terribly prudent expenditure of time and effort."

She scoffs quietly to cover her surprise.

"He didn't even have to strike you to put you on your knees, did he? A harsh word or two, or perhaps his now patented 'profoundly disappointed' frown and you were no doubt beside yourself, ready to do anything to please him, to win back his favor." And if that isn't he voice of experience she'll eat the horrid, clunky boots her feet are currently mashed into. "When he first turned up with you in tow I actually allowed myself a moment to hope that he'd found a worthy acolyte, someone far better suited to such a role than me. After all he could groom and guide you to his heart's content and you'd lap it up like a cat with cream." He turns his head to address their reflections in the window. "Sadly it was not to be."

"At this point I suppose I shall just have to look forward to outliving him," he says apropos of nothing really, "he's had some sort of nasty little health-related scare in the past few years. If I were pressed I'd say heart-related." He rolls his head back and studies her for a few seconds then smirks. "Definitely heart-related. It certainly explains the weight loss."

Well, it partially explains the weight loss; she likes to think she's had a little something to do with keeping her employer on track in this respect. 

He seems to consider his next words with more care than she'd used to from him. Indeed she's seen him treat live bombs with far less concern. "Do you know what Moriarty calls him? My brother, I mean, do you know what Moriarty calls him?"

She shakes her head, profoundly uncertain that she wishes to know.

"The Ice Man. This, mind you, coming from a psychopath responsible for dozens, if not hundreds of deaths. And the bit you fail to understand is that both Mycroft and Jim would see it as a compliment."

No, she actually does understand that all too well. If she hadn't realized it before Mycroft's epiphany at his mother's death bed she certainly did by the time they'd reached the back seat of the car. "The Ice Man," she repeats quietly. Well, it's no "Oracle of Whitehall" but it's not the most unflattering appellation her employer's probably accumulated over the years. Professional courtesy, perhaps?

"My brother doesn't care because he's incapable of feeling. The only reason he appears to show any concern about you or me at all is because we're useful to him. The moment that ceases to be the case we shall cease to hold any interest for him." Sherlock closes his eyes, tired of watching her reactions to his words and following the winding path of his deductions. "We're tools, you and I, the only difference between us is that Mycroft and I happen to share a genetic background."

It takes her several seconds to come to the realization that he truly believes what he's just said. Then it takes several more to process the implications of his words; to compare his view of the relationship between the brothers to everything she's seen and heard and experienced over the past decade. She'd argue with him, give him example after example to rationally, logically disprove his utterly erroneous deduction. But she knows without speaking a word that he won't be able to hear her, couldn't possibly bring himself to believe her even if he wanted to.

It's tragic really that someone so brilliant can at the same time to be so breathtakingly, jaw-droppingly…

Without any real thought or hesitation she pulls the mobile out of her pocket and types in a single word before hitting send.

A few seconds later a breathy sigh emanates from one of Sherlock's inner jacket pockets. He plucks out his own phone and stares at the single word on its screen. 

_'Wrong!"_


	43. "Excellent work, Miranda, I'm very proud of you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our story reaches its conclusion and Anthea lives happily ever after.

The sun hasn't quite risen when Anthea finally drags her weary body into Harry's house. She'd considered heading to her own flat but it's been ages since she's spent the night there and it would feel too much like a night in a hotel. She can't even remember what her own linens smell like and she needs…familiarity more than she can even really articulate. She needs to feel like she's come home and home is where Harry is.

And Harry, bless her, is still curled up under the duvet, less sleeping than hibernating. Anthea could probably let go a couple rounds from her handgun without the other woman so much as twitching. It's a rare and enviable trait in some ways, but it does rather worry Anthea that their smoke alarm won't have the ghost of a chance of waking Harry should it need to. That, she supposes, is another job that will fall to her.

She doesn't mind, not really, especially when it means she can drop her bag on the floor and kick off her boots without disturbing her sleeping lover. Crawling onto the plush queen-size mattress, Anthea burrows under the duvet and around Harry's tightly curled body. Harry mumbles something about an e.e. cummings first edition and relaxes against her.

Anthea just rests her nose against Harry's shoulder and breathes in the woman's clean, fresh mown lawn scent. Someone's been to Lush recently and stocked up on Grass shower gel. It helps wash away the scent of sweat and dirt and blood that still clings to her own body. Not quite as nice as a shower, but it'll do.

\--

She wakes some time well after noon to the heavenly scent of freshly baked raisin scones and her stomach and skin proceed to debate the merits of breakfast or shower first. Shower wins by a hair, mostly in fact, due to the shocking state of her hair. It takes a solid half hour of scrubbing to make herself feel almost human again.

Habit nearly sends her strolling down to the kitchen starkers before she remembers their current house guest might still be about. She doubts John would so much as bat an eyelash, of course. He is a doctor, after all. Still, best not to potentially embarrass or titillate a possible future brother-in-law.

Her body locks up before she's even aware what triggered such an intense fear effect. She rewinds and examines her recent train of thought. Brother-in-law? Where in the hell did that come from?

The hideous part is it really doesn't matter now because this genie won't be stuffed back in its bottle. She chalks up her body's continued trembling to low blood sugar and does the only sensible thing she can. She schedules a good long freak out about her relationship and its future this weekend. She should have loads of time after her errands to sit in the BMW, white knuckling the wheel and rocking back and forth until she reaches some sort of rational conclusion.

She dresses for work because exhausted or no she's got some housekeeping to do before Mr. Holmes returns. Her mobile shows only two texts and one email from him, none of which are flagged urgent. He must be rather hideously bored, she thinks, then wonders if he'll turn to his old friend, chips, out of sheer, bloody desperation. She'll restart his Weight Watchers account just to be on the safe side.

There are, in fact, no red flag emails awaiting her at all. It's almost enough to make her rethink her position on the existence of a benevolent higher power. The still warm scones and romantic note that accompany them tell her she's just missed Harry…and that Harry's missed her rather fiercely. She smiles but doesn't let herself go beyond a mild warm and fuzzy response; she'll deal with the rest on Saturday.

Nor will she stop to really think about the empty ale bottles in the bin. They could be John's but she knows very well that they're not. He treats Harry's addiction with all the grim caution of an unexploded IED. Anthea has to admit it's been rather nice having someone else to share bomb squad duty with recently. But she knows he'll be returning to his life and defusing his own Improvised Explosive Flatmate.

They really do need to form a support group of some sort.

After a little high calorie emotional therapy (which she's utterly earned, several times over, of course) she makes her way to the office. She silently declares that she will never take her sanctum sanctorum for granted again. A cup of tea fortifies her through a quick perusal of the messages waiting patiently in her "moderate" queue. Mandy has done a rather fine job in her absence…she didn't even re-adjust the height of Anthea's chair. Perhaps there's a place in their organization for the woman. They have been a man down since Sixto's abrupt departure, after all.

Reclaiming her one true mobile is next on the agenda and soon after, getting rid of her burner. It may be her imagination but she's willing to swear she can actually recognize the feel of her own phone simply by touch. She rubs a thumb lovingly over its surface like a samurai polishing his favorite katana.

Once she's settled in with a lovely little roast beef sandwich she finally gets a chance to read through Mr. Holmes' messages. The email is simply a forward of his return flight information, Dulles of Heathrow…today. Her mouth freezes mid-bite. She couldn't have read that correctly. Scrolling through the itinerary again she glances over at the calendar and realizes she got it right the first time. She has two hours before he arrives in London.

Two bloody hours.

Her heart is thumping so loudly that she almost doesn't hear the intermittent buzz of her mobile, like a bumblebee thumping against a pane of glass. She's almost afraid to look, but it's just a text from John. Clearly he's heard that she's back from Harry and while he doesn't outright ask about Sherlock his concern couldn't be any plainer. With a sigh she types a quick message to let him know Sherlock is fine and probably ready to behave like a member of the human race again. The underlying message is, of course, that it should be fine for John to move back in to the flat.

Perhaps she'll speak with Greg later, hint not too subtly that Sherlock could use some brain work just now. Lestrade still feels wretched about the aborted dinner party, as if he were somehow personally responsible for Sherlock's bitchiness that evening. Nothing could literally be further from the truth and if she were a better person she'd tell him so. 

Instead she fully intends to make use of his misapprehension as well as the time he's no longer devoting to making amends with his wretched ex-wife, and set him back on full-time Sherlock minding duty with John. Sherlock will be happily occupied, Lestrade won't have time to mope over his failed marriage…everybody wins. And, all right, so it also means she won't end up chasing after the younger Holmes, but honestly she's fulfilled her quota for at least the next fortnight.

The remaining hour and a half she spends dashing through her list of "Must Do's" while prioritizing the "Should Do's" and "It Would Be Lovely if I Had Time to Do's". In the end, despite the fact that the entire time she's been seated comfortably at her desk, she feels as if she's just completed a rather gruelling marathon. Automatically she dispatches one of the cars for Mr. Holmes and reserves the remaining time until he arrives for getting her shaking and breathing under control.

When he does calmly enter the office she can't help thinking, "God is in His heaven and all is right with the world". By the time he's deposited his overcoat and umbrella she's as calm as if she were lining up the perfect shot. She warms to a legitimately happy smile and chirps, "Welcome back, sir."

For his part Mr. Holmes sports the slightly beleaguered air of the recently jet-lagged. He's quite clearly exhausted and she wouldn't swear to it but suspects he has, in fact, reacquainted himself with his old friends, snack foods and sweets. She'll chalk most of it up to boredom and the stress of being shown around Washington like some sort of performing animal for the past few days. He is a man used to standing quietly just outside the spotlight rather than in it. Poor dear must have spent most of the last week desperate for a throne to dive behind.

"Thank you, it's lovely to be back." He attempts to smooth the roadmap of wrinkles that criss-cross his elegantly tailored suit, but to no avail. His suits are dapper, to be sure, but they're really not meant to be napped in. He gives up with a weary, mildly annoyed sigh. "Perhaps you could step into my office and catch me up? I feel as if I've been away for months rather than a few days."

"Of course, sir." She slips all too easily into his wake, letting muscle memory soothe her into an almost trance-like state. The feel of the low pile carpet beneath her Louboutins, the touch of grayish yellow light filtering through the office windows, and the scent of well-weathered leather and ancient books all work their gentle spell on her nerves. There's nothing to fear here, nothing that’s ever frightened or harmed her in this space. "How was Washington?"

"Ghastly."

Her lips quirk as they settle into their respective chairs. His desk, usually ebbing and flowing with a never-ending tide of files and folders labeled "Classified" and "Eyes Only", seems oddly desolate at the moment. Mr. Holmes spreads his long-fingered hands over the expanse of smooth mahogany as if reclaiming some long lost territory. "How anyone could possibly choose to spend more than a few benighted days within its borders mystifies me." He ponders something for a moment then adds, "Perhaps if one could entirely avoid their pubic servants while visiting it might be considered tolerable."

"Oh dear," she returns with a smirk, "were there many politicians who wanted to make your acquaintance?"

"I suppose not, but far too many for my taste. From my rather small sampling I can confidently say that American politicians come in one of two basic forms, bellicose or obsequious. Although I will admit to a certain degree of overlap between the two."

"In other words," Anthea can't help pointing out, "not at all different from our own politicians."

"Only in degree," he replies placidly, straightening one of the Montblanc fountain pens in his executive desk set absently. "Though they do seem to rather enjoy taking things to extremes in that country."

She can't really argue that point and wouldn't dream of trying. Instead she says, "I'm sorry your trip was so dreadful, but you will be pleased to hear that in your absence the government has not collapsed, all current projects continue apace, there have been no budget-related catastrophes despite the serious efforts of several department heads, and Sherlock is back in his flat soon to be joined by a somewhat calmer Dr. Watson."

Mycroft's smile is wide and lazy like a long, slow stretch. He seems suddenly so unburdened, so relaxed in a way Anthea rarely gets to experience with him. Whatever dregs of panic that had previously simmered away quietly in her gut has cooled leaving her as calm as a still pond. Her employer is genuinely pleased and impressed with her and she thinks if she could have felt this quiet glow of pleasure in her parents' presence just once her life might have turned out quite differently.

"Clearly," he purrs, leaning forward in an almost conspiratorial manner, "I shall have to schedule in a few holidays for myself henceforth. Now that I know I can leave everything in your capable hands."

She's basking in his praise, leaning a bit closer to his desk like a plant yearning for sunlight. Her smile is actually making her face ache a bit and she knows her color is up. But she doesn't care, nothing matters right now save for the way Mr. Holmes' cerulean eyes almost glow in the umber twilight. She feels almost meditative, poised on the verge of some intense, enlightening insight.

The moment isn't shattered precisely, but it's a near thing when he says, "May I ask where Sherlock scampered off to this time?"

She straightens in her chair and shifts her feet. Is that a tell? God she hopes not. "Toulouse. He had himself a bit of a sulk but I think he was actually glad to see me when I arrived to collect him."

He digests that in silence for a moment, his eyes half-lidded. "Toulouse…how odd."

"Sir?" She doesn't dare say more as she's suddenly not certain where this is going.

He stands and comes around the desk to rest against it, his long legs stretched out inches from her own. Leaning forward he runs a finger delicately between the cuff of her sleeve and wrist. "Given the intensity of the sun you were exposed to in the past twenty-four hours I would have thought a more equatorial locale." His eyes follow her arm up and he touches the collar of her top and then runs a finger along her jaw line. "The exposure is limited, indicating that you were well covered at the time, one might say 'modestly' attired. Oddly, though, your hair doesn't show the same signs of exposure. It has a tendency towards auburn highlights, very attractive I might add."

She has to remind herself to breathe as she waits for him to quietly, calmly, gently take her apart.

"You've never been one for wearing hats, even on those occasions where a hat would be not only acceptable but quite sensible. So why cover your hair? To disguise yourself from Sherlock?" He smiles and leans back, still tracing the lines of her face, but from a somewhat less intimidating distance. "Unlikely, both because it would have been quite pointless and utterly unnecessary. Sherlock knew you'd be pursuing him, and would've seen through any attempt at subterfuge on your part. So the only conclusion I'm left with is that you were required to cover your hair. Now I ask myself, where might you have traveled in the past 48 hours where a woman would be required to cover her hair? Not, I think, Toulouse."

She's almost used to the way his colorless eyes take in every inch of her, every twitch and flutter, every stray thought or wordless hope. But she's never quite prepared, not really, because it simply isn't possible. She's like those trees in the old nuclear testing films, stripped bare in one howling blast. She wonders how many of her secrets now exist as charred shadows on his office walls, and she shudders just a little.

He reaches out again to take her right hand in both of his. "And then, of course, there's this rather singular injury." He's holding her right hand, his thumb tracing the incriminating bruise from the AWM in a hypnotic, soothing manner. 

"Sir, I…" 

Mycroft shakes his head and gives her hand a little squeeze. "You needn't say anything, my dear, just reassure me on two points, the first that both you and Sherlock are well."

Her nod is more like a twitch, almost involuntary.

"Good, good. The second is a bit more esoteric, but bear with me. I'd like you to reassure me that Ms. Adler, or whatever she might be called these days, will have no further hold on either your or my brother."

"I…" she pauses, clears her throat and begins again, "Sir, I think I can safely say that neither Sherlock nor I will ever forget The Woman, but…"

Mycroft watches her, so still and silent she wonders if he's even breathing.

"She's Agent Neilson's problem now."

Her employer throws his head back with a startling burst of laughter. She watches him, caught somewhere between surprise and discomfort. He continues to chuckle for several moments then finally manages, "Quite so, quite so. Well we shall have to wish him better luck in their future endeavors together." Straightening, he draws her to her feet along with him, the moon to her tide. "And on the subject of future endeavors, I believe you may be ready for, shall we say, an expansion of your duties."

"Sir?"

"I've a mind to put you in charge of one or two small projects. We will, of course, still work together quite closely and I will maintain oversight, but you'll have a great deal more…leeway in the decision making process." He escorts her to the door. "As it happens a rather lovely office has opened up on this very floor that I believe might suit you rather nicely. Of course we'll need to see about a replacement to take over some of your more mundane activities."

She opens the door and appears to give the question some consideration before saying, "I might have an idea or two on that front."

"I thought you might." He smiles and rests a hand on her thin shoulder, paternal and possessive all at once. "Excellent work, Miranda, I'm very proud of you."

\--  
 **  
Epilogue**

She's kissing her way down Harry's soft, smooth abdomen, pausing just long enough to swirl her tongue around the woman's ever so sensitive belly button, when she hears the buzz of her phone. Harry groans, a long suffering sound. She knows what that particular noise means, knows that her girlfriend won't be able to resist a quick peek. Anthea's aware that Harry hates that mobile, has threatened to hide it away so she won't have to share her girlfriend's attention…particularly in bed.

Anthea should feel guilty about it, does to a degree, but as much as she loves Harry her priorities haven't inherently shifted since they started seeing one another. She still answers to the needs of the kingdom first, or at least the needs of Mr. Holmes first. To be fair, they are one in the same more often than not.

"Well go on," Harry mutters with a resigned wave of her hand, "might as well get it over with."

With a final press of her lips to Harry's plush hip, Anthea sits up and shifts to reach for her mobile from the bedside table. She knows that she'll have to start the slow, patient process of guiding Harry's body back to the very precipice of orgasm from the start. Not that she minds, but it will be a somewhat steeper hill to climb this time around. Harry will make her work for it.

Anthea calls up the text message automatically. She just stares at the single word for several seconds. Her breathing is even, her muscles still loose, warm and relaxed.

_From: TheWhipHand01  
Dinner?_

Tomorrow she will have to work out just where Irene is and what she's currently up to, but not tonight. For now there is only one response she can make, the only one she wants to make. So she types in two words and hits send.

_Not hungry._

Shutting the phone off she turns back to her startled girlfriend and says, "Now, where were we?"

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story started out simply enough, from a deep dissatisfaction with the final few minutes of A Scandal in Belgravia. The rest of the episode was exquisitely conceived but all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere we get this wildly improbable scenario in which Sherlock travels to Pakistan entirely on his own, infiltrates a terrorist camp, rescues Irene and fights his way out of said camp with nothing more than a sword. Um, what? In addition to that he managed it all without his brother finding out. His brother, who is basically the British Government and CIA all rolled up into one...and obsessively voyeuristic where Sherlock is concerned, didn't know Sherlock had flown halfway around the world and swashbuckled Irene out of harm's way. Um...right.
> 
> Anyway, as I say it had a simple start and then it kind of...got away from me. Hopefully you found my resolution to the episode a little more believable, and if not, at least enjoyed the ride. As a little gift for those of you who hung on for all 90K+ words, I've posted my Anthea "Ingénue" [**mix over at 8Tracks called "That's Not My Name"**](http://8tracks.com/ebonlock/that-s-not-my-name). These are the songs that inspired me when I was writing the story, hopefully you'll enjoy them too.
> 
> Thanks very much for all the comments and feedback, I've appreciated it all!


End file.
